Three different times, three different streets.
Three different ROASTED CHICKENS my dog has found in the bushes of my suburban neighborhood.
He stops dead in his tracks, he sniffs the air, his ears perk up, and then he dashes into the landscaped front yard of someone’s home.
And comes out with a fully cooked, untouched roasted chicken in his mouth.
(Did I mention this has happened three times?)
At which point I:
1. Wrestle him to the ground and try to pry his iron-clad jaws open while not dropping the poop bag I’ve been carrying for the last mile, and
2. Try logic: “You will choke on those bones. Don’t you understand? And a whole chicken is too much chicken. You’ll barf. Aren’t you listening to me?” and
3. Wonder WHERE THE HELL THESE CHICKENS ARE COMING FROM.
It’s been insane.
And this is not a joke. Or exaggerated. It has truly happened three times.
My husband, who is very accustomed to hearing bizarre stories from me, listened impassively. He didn’t laugh. He didn’t look incredulous. He just said,
“If you had done a better job training him, he’d also find mashed potatoes, string beans and a bottle of wine. Then you wouldn’t have to cook dinner.”