No. A
chicken.
Two chickens,
in fact.
And I live in
Takoma Park, a Washington, D.C. suburb within walking distance of a subway stop
into the city.
The chickens
did their high-stepping waddle around the back of the car, scolding the dog in
their gentle clucking voices as they went. The dog, utterly confused, and,
thank goodness, on a leash, alternately lunged and backed off.
I know these
chickens. They belong to a friend who lives across the street from where they
were pecking at the neighbor’s lawn. They are out during the day, but mostly
stay close to the coop and are gathered in at night. I thought of knocking on
the door to let my friends know “the girls” had wandered across the street, but
then they started to cross on their own. In front of a car.
Oh, no! I put
out a mittened hand to alert the driver, who stopped to let the birds cross.
At this point
I was laughing at these busybody hens bustling themselves home after their
morning adventure, oblivious to automobile traffic and focused only on the
patch of ground in front of them. The driver, unbelievably, was not amused, and
acted as though she was waiting for a child to cross the street, nothing
unusual about two chickens in her path. She continued her conversation on the
cell phone and never made eye contact with me, or the chickens.
I chuckled
all the way home.
Then I
toasted some cornbread for breakfast and slathered it with honey from the hives
of another neighbor, across the street.
Who says you
have to live on a farm to have the best of everything?
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