Thursday, February 23, 2006

Chickens Unite!

I was sitting in the turn lane at the intersection of Highway 30 and Highway 27 this morning on my way to work when two large semis rolled to a stop, waiting to turn west on 30 into downtown Dayton. Each truck was at least 30 feet long and carried crates of chickens stacked 10 high and six or seven wide. There had to be at least 600-700 of the nasty critters, pecking the floors of their metal cage or staring at the passersby. My first thought was about the cool front page photo I could get for the weekend edition if the trucks were involved in an accident trying to turn through traffic. I guess that's the sicko nature of the news industry.

But then I felt compassion for the chickens, poor creatures persecuted by Truett Cathy and his bovine band of illiterate, reprobate, graffiti-artist cow thugs. What did the chickens do to deserve the ire of America's most popular meat? Something must be done. A chicken is not much on its own, but there is strength in numbers. And there were many of the feathered friends here on a trip to a most certain death. If chickens can communicate, there most assuredly had to be some major scheming going on between the chickens on the two semis, I thought. They needed a leader, a warrior, someone who would be brave enough to fight the man, even if it meant spinning on a rotisserie at the Wal-Mart deli sooner than expected.

Realizing that I was about to enter the stale world of adults and stifled creativity, I became keenly aware of the ridiculous nature of my thoughts and put a clamp on the emerging story going on between my ears.

The second of the two semis began to make his turn at the stoplight after the oncoming traffic stopped for the red light, and I prepared for my own green arrow, but then I noticed him. A chicken was poking its head out ever so slightly from a top cage. A second later it gave himself a final shake, stood on the truck's edge, took the 15-foot plunge to the ground and landed just at the corner of the intersection. I imagine the chicken gave some choice words to its captor, maybe a special talon salute and shouted encouragement to the others, beckoning them to realize their true potential. They didn't have to be partners to the 'Eat mor chikin' slogan. They were more than this. They were small, but powerful in number. Tasty but tricky all the same.

As the truck pulled further down the street I saw two or three other chickens, presumably from the same cage as the escapee, strutting on the top of the truck, but my green arrow had arrived and it was time to make my turn toward the office.

As I entered the office parking lot, I saw a reporter leaving. I thought nothing of it until hearing the news from the police scanner that a truck was dumping chickens all along Highway 30. My co-worker was in hot pursuit of the chickens. Thirty minutes later he returned, dejected and with an empty camera and flashcard, having not seen a single chicken or chicken truck.

They are small in body, but powerful in number and apparently quite quick and sneaky. Let the chicken revolution begin!