Oh, gentle reader. I�m home now. I�m preparing to celebrate the Yule with my parents and drink in all the festivities Oklahoma has to offer. I�d been here for less than six hours and was getting nicely settled when my sister burst into the guestroom at my parent�s house where I was to stay. Tears stained her pink cheeks, her hands worried in a bundle, and her breathing was labored. She was back in control, barely, and was trying to remain that way. It was clearly difficult.

�Hi, Brian. How was your flight?� Her words staccato as the tears threatened to burst through.

�Oh my god!� I exclaimed. �What�s the matter?�

She fell to her knees and began sobbing uncontrollably. I joined her and put my arm around her and tried to get her to calm down long enough to tell me what was going on. I was understandably alarmed. After a few gasping sobs she managed to get out a few syllables.

�What was that?� I asked. �It sounded like you said �chicken.� What did you say?�

She sat there on the floor and hugged her knees. �The chicken�it was awful!�

�What are you talking about, sis?�

�Oh, Brian, it was awful. I was on Suchandsucha Street just past the intersection with Whoseits Ave., and you know there�s like a median in the road there right where it narrows from four to two lanes?�

�Yeah.�

�Well,� she continued, �there was a chicken on that median. A red chicken.�

�A what? A chicken? You mean a live farm animal, or a frozen Grade AAA fryer?�

�It was alive, Brian. It was on the median and pecking at some gravel. And then it started moving toward the curb and onto the street and I could see a big, big pickup truck coming from the other direction and that�s when everything started going in slow motion because I can remember everything about that truck. It was blue, like a medium grade blue, you know? Not navy, not powder. And it was a GMC.

�Well, anyway, that chicken started to head for the street and this truck was coming, so I start screaming, right? I start screaming �DON�T MOVE, CHICKEN! DON�T MOVE, CHICKEN!� But the chicken didn�t hear me, you know?

�So then I start yelling at the truck because the chicken is headed right out in front of the truck, so I yell, �STOP STOP STOP STOP SSSSSSSSTTTTTTTTTTOOOOOOOPPPPPPP!� But the truck doesn�t hear me either, because I�m sealed up in my car and I�m really far away.�

Tears welled up in her eyes again. �So, then, it happened. The truck hit the chicken, Brian, and it was the most awful thing I�ve ever seen. The chicken didn�t get hit by the front wheels, you know? The chicken was between the front wheels so the bumper hit its head and I watched it roll and disappear underneath the truck and then it got caught up in the rear wheels and they sort of gripped it and threw it up about twenty five feet into the air sort of at an angle so the chicken was thrown over a privacy fence into somebody�s back yard.

�OH MY GOD THE FEATHERS! There were so many feathers. So many feathers.� She was rocking back and forth and crying a little. I tried to console her, thinking the story was over. It wasn�t.

�So, then I start screaming in my car, Brian. I start screaming, �NOOOOOOOOOOOOO! NOOOOOOOOOOO!� on account of what I�ve just witnessed. And so I pull into that bank that�s right on the corner there, you know? That bank?�

�Yeah, I know the bank.�

�I pull in there and I�m crying and screaming and pretty soon I see a cop pull into the same bank. So I get out of my car and I go running over to the cop and I bang on the window and he can see I�m upset, you know? And I tell the cop about what happened and then I tell him, �you�ve got to go into that back yard and see if it�s still alive, because if it is, you have to shoot it! You can�t let a chicken suffer like that.�

So he says he�ll check it out, but then he goes into the bank and I think he was laughing at me, Brian. And I don�t think he went over there to check on that chicken. I really don�t.�

�That heartless bastard,� I comforted.

�So then I drove over here and I can�t believe I just saw a chicken get killed.�

We sat there on the floor in silence for a few. I really didn�t know what to say and maybe she didn�t either. So I asked, �hey, what do you think that chicken was doing on the median anyway?�

My sister considered the question for a moment and then said without any trace of irony, �It was crossing the road, of course. The chicken was crossing the road.�

I squeezed my whole face shut as tightly as I could in an effort to prevent even one giggle from escaping. Tears streamed down my cheeks and my chest heaved a little.

That night at dinner, we left the chicken off the Caesar salads. You know. Out of respect.

Posted at 11:31 a.m.

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