Drooling for Poultry

We had heard about the new den of foxes months before, but we couldn't make a move until we had a complaint. That came around dinner time one hot summer day in the form of an anguished telephone squawk. So, they were stealing chickens, eh?

As the Head of the Fox Unit, I led the raid on the den. I am Lieutenant Bowser. In my many years of protecting fowl and sniffing out the misdeeds of foxes, I have seen sights that would make a grown dog whine. I thought I had seen everything, and I tried to prepare the lads for the worst, but even I was not prepared for what we discovered.

We were greeted by a particularly odious fox in a three-piece suit.

"Welcome to the Union with Poultry Ranch," said the fox, extending a paw. "I am Mr. Loxy, the attorney representing the ranch. How may I help you gentle ... mutts?"

Rising to the sarcasm would serve no purpose, so I ignored it.

"We have a complaint that you've been stealing chickens," I said curtly.

"What?" replied the fox innocently. "Steal chickens? Us? Absurd! We live in harmony with chickens."

"Harmony, eh?" I rejoined skeptically. "Well, we just got a squawk for help from a very unhappy chicken, and it came from this compound. We need to inspect the premises."

There were chickens everywhere. They toddled across the grounds, pecking for corn and other chicken goodies. They slept, rested, laid eggs, or just hunkered down in a vast array of chicken coops. They fluttered from one perch to another. They clucked greetings to the foxes and to each other.

"See?" said Loxy the lawyer. "Everything's fine. By the way, your tongue's hanging out."

"My tongue always hangs out," I replied with dignity, although it was definitely hanging more than usual.

"Hey! Look over here!" barked Officer Spot. "Chicken bones! Lots of them!"

"Ah, ha!" I added smartly. "So, how do you explain that?"

"Ah," said Mr. Loxy, reverently bowing his head, "the cemetery. I would advise you to stay out of our holy places."

"Holy places?" I scoffed with as much sarcasm as I could muster, but less than I intended.

"Yes, holy places," said Mr. Loxy with the voice of a saint, but the eyes of a demon. "The cemetery is where we inter the bones of our dear, departed chickens."

"Dear departed?" I reprised the sarcasm thing.

"Yes, dear departed," replied Loxy mildly. Sarcasm, alas, is an agree-only form of humor. Only funny if you agree with the sarcaster. "After they rise joyously up to meet their Maker, this is where we reverently place their mortal remains."

"There're an awful lot of them," repeated Officer Spot.

"Well, of course, there are," said Lawyer Loxy. "There are many of our Poultry Brethren who are eager to undergo the Union Ritual."

"Uh, what do you mean, 'Union Ritual?'" I asked with anticipatory horror.

"Remember the name of the ranch," coaxed Loxy.

"Drooling for Poultry?" I suggested. I mean, he'd only said it once.

"Tut, tut!" chided Loxy reproachfully. "Your sarcasm does you no credit. It's agree-only humor, you know. No, it's the 'Union with Poultry Ranch.' God has called upon us to unite with our chicken brethren."

"And how do you do that?" I prompted, in spite of myself.

"We free the soul of the chicken to rise up to God," said Mr. Loxy. "Then, we spiritually merge with their mortal coil, and reverently inter the blessed bones."

"You kill the chickens, eat them, and chuck the bones over there," translated Officer Spot.

"Your ... poodle could use a muzzle," said Mr. Loxy, sneering almost imperceptibly. "Why don't you ask the chickens what they think, huh?"

I flagged a passing pullet. "Excuse me, ma'am," said I politely, "could you tell me how these foxes stole you? You can speak freely. We're police officers. We will protect you."

"Brawk," said the chicken, eyeing us quizzically. "I don't know what you're talkin' about, dawg. I live here. All us chickens live here. Always have. It's our home. "

"But these foxes ...," I objected.

"We love the foxes," crooned the chicken. "Foxes and chickens are one."

"Who told you that?" I asked.

"The foxes, of course," said the chicken. "The wonderful foxes, our teachers and protectors."

"But they eat you," I pointed out.

"Oh, pshaw!" scoffed the chicken. "Of course, they don't eat us. They teach us and protect us. Like I said."

"What about the ... Union Ritual, is it?" I persisted.

"Oh, yes!" squawked the chicken, spitting awe. "The Union Ritual! It is the dearest hope of every chicken to be called for the Union Ritual."

"That's when they kill you," I explained. "And eat you."

"Oh, no!" clucked the chicken. "Oh, no no no no no! No, indeed! That is when we meet our Maker! It is the Will of God!"

Mr. Loxy raised an eyebrow in my direction and shrugged. "Did I tell you?"

"Ok, we're taking custody of all these chickens, effective immediately," I ruled.

Mr. Loxy barely twitched his tail. "You are violating our freedom of religion," he said. "And I refer to both foxes and chickens. It's our shared religion. I'll see you in court, where you won't find me so affable."

The court case was an education. Judge Owl presided. He had a reputation for wisdom, but I wasn't sure he was the best choice to rule on a case involving predators and prey.

"Return them chickens to them foxes!" hooted Judge Owl.

But the foxes will mistreat them, we argued.

"They are not being mistreated," said Judge Owl. "The chickens themselves so testify!"

But the foxes are raising them for food, we countered.

"You have no evidence of that," said Judge Owl. "They have a vulpine-poultry religion. The law forbids you from messing with that!"

They kill the chickens and eat them, we pointed out. There's a great, big pile of chicken bones in there. That's a scam, not a religion.

"That is not for you to judge," said Judge Owl. "When you have a specific instance of chicken slaughter, you may take action. You may not take custody of all the chickens because you think they may be slaughtered some day."

But that's the whole point, we argued. The foxes have set up a system to keep themselves rolling in chicken meat. Regardless of how they dress it up, the purpose of the operation is killing chickens for food. It's a chicken-processing plant. There is no way that a single chicken on that ranch can escape being mistreated. It's in the fabric of the Drooling for Poultry Ranch ... or whatever they call it.

"This court," scowled Judge Owl owlishly, "don't deal with stuff like that. Until you've got a concrete attack on a concrete chicken, you ain't got mistreatment. Now, get them chickens back to them foxes!"