Stranger Than Fiction

The First Cousin’s son lives in the house just east of the Albertson’s gas pumps, and he and his brother handle the farming chores on the Morrison Ranch ground that is still in alfalfa. One morning a few days ago, he answered a knock on his door very early in the morning, and discovered a woman standing there holding a chicken. Not the kind you find in Albertson’s, cut and wrapped and ready to fry, but the kind you find in Farmer John’s back yard – feathered, and clucking, and very much alive. “I’ve got one of your girls here,” the woman stated, and that comment brought the wife of the house to the door in alarm that one of her young daughters was out in harm’s way, which was impossible, of course.

“That’s not one of my girls,” First Cousin’s son informed her. I think he was wondering, as I am, how this woman caught the bird, and then seemed so comfortable holding it.
“Well, I guess I just assumed,” the woman answered. And with that she turned and left. “I guess I’ll just keep it, then.”

The only more improbable ending to this story of a lonely hen in suburbia would be a flyer taped to the light pole saying, “Lost Chicken… Answers to Clarabelle…”