Just a follow-up to the chicken story....
Harry told me last night that he had thawed the chicken and taken it to his friend Wayne to cook, because it was too big for his campstove. Wayne lives next door to Harry's trailer and across the street from my store and in the summertime, Harry and Wayne have installed concert-sized speakers to a stereo and entertain the neighborhood with every sad or beer-drinking country and western song recorded. Anyway, the chicken was so big it took four hours to cook and when Harry sat down to eat it, it was so tough he couldn't cut it. He threw the whole thing out the door into the snow and the neighbour's dog, who is always in their yard, thought he'd won the lottery. "Got rid of that," Harry growled. "The chicken or the dog?" I asked. "Both!" he said.
So in Harry's world, the fellow down the street will have to beg to be plowed again, because the so-called chicken was a "damned old rooster" and had to be at least five years old.
And I hope the Glover's dog is lying in good health in their porch with a full belly, a smile on his face and dreams of chicken.