The Flaming Chicken and other Tales

by Bartholomew Thockmorton

“Dog like that ought to take Cindy’s mind off a horse.”

  “But Freddy, this dog belongs to somebody around here…maybe a kid. We can’t just take him. Wouldn’t be right.”

  “Now who said anything about stealing that dog?” criticized Freddy. He walked around the truck and gestured towards the house and the man sitting outside. “Why don’t we ask the owner if he’ll sell her?” Bubba quickly looked and saw that the dog was not such a good boy after all.

  The two walked towards the middle-aged man sitting on the porch, the dog following on their heels. The man regarded Freddy and Bubba with mild curiosity as they approached.

  “How’s it going?” asked Freddy.

  “Can’t complain,” replied the man. “Something I can help you gentlemen with?”

  Before long Freddy and Bubba sat in porch chairs while sipping their drinks. The resident, who went by the name of Old George, gladly accepted the offered refreshment, listening while Freddy outlined Bubba’s predicament. Then he turned to Old George with the big question—would he be willing to sell the dog?

  Old George thought awhile, then announced he would gladly sell Mandy (the dog’s name) for the small price of five-dollars. Bubba, grinning at the good news, reached for his wallet—it seemed an exceptional price for such a friendly animal.

  Then Old George hit them with the other shoe—well actually with the first one. “But that’s just the fee for selling Mandy. She’s not my dog, you see.”

  Freddy and Bubba tried not to look confused…although they were. “Well it she’s not yours, how can you sell her?” asked Freddy, shrugging his shoulders at Bubba.

  “Mandy’s tribal property. Even though Frank, the guy who lives over there, feeds her, she’s owned by the entire community. Old tribal customs demand we all share as necessary. In addition to my fee, you must pay 15 dollars to Frank.”

  Bubba, although confused, inwardly acknowledged that 20 dollars was still a good price for the right gift for his daughter. He continued reaching for his wallet.

  Now came the other shoe. “Of course the chief gets his cut too.”

  Bubba stopped reaching. “Just how much do you figure that’s going to run?”

  “About 20 dollars,” replied Old George, taking a long drink from his can.

  “What about the rest of the tribe?” asked Freddy sarcastically.

  “Glad you asked, I’d almost forgotten them. That’s another 10 dollars.”

  “Are you sure that’s all?” asked Freddy. “No one else like your mother or brothers?”

  “For heaven’s sake, Freddy,” cried Bubba, grabbing his friend’s shoulder. “Don’t give him any more ideas! 50 dollars is a lot of money—“

  “And that’s a lot of dog,” interrupted Old George. “That’s full payment…pay the 50 and Miss Mandy’s yours.”

  The aged Indian remained firm on the price—even after several more beers, he refused to yield a penny. In the end, Bubba paid the money, after borrowing 10 dollars from Freddy. With the deal complete, they returned to the truck.

  Old George followed and tucked the bills into his shirt pocket. “I’ll make sure everybody gets their cut.” He waved as Freddy put the pickup in gear and drove away.

  After considerable discussion, both men found it quite funny to think Old George had actually sold his neighbor’s dog; they laughed most of the remaining ride home. Sitting between them, Mandy looking from one to the other each time they began to laugh anew. Little did they realize Old George would have the last laugh. It would just be a while before they knew it.

  Cindy’s party went off without a hitch. The little girl repeatedly hugged Mandy while proclaiming her the best dog in the whole world. Bubba had thoroughly bathed the pooch so she would be nice and clean when she received Cindy’s heart-felt hugs. Mandy certainly enjoyed the attention, running between Cindy and Bubba, with an occasional trip to Bubba’s wife, getting praise and friendly pats each time she sat and uttered her particularly funny half-bark, half-whine cry for attention.

  It was not long before Mandy needed another washing. What with playing in the backyard with Cindy and her frequent trips to the neighboring woods, the dog managed to be filthy within a couple of days. It was during the fourth bathing when disaster struck.

  The dog had been a family member only two weeks and, as usual, Bubba found himself stuck with bathing the dog. Cindy, tired of watching this boring ritual, left Bubba and Mandy to enjoy each other’s company. Bubba filled the large washtub and inserted Mandy. After a few moments, Bubba noticed numerous clumps of the dog’s hair seemed quite loose. So loose, in fact, the clumps slid off, dropping into the tub’s soapy water. Bubba was horrified—in moments, Mandy was a bald as a cue ball.

  Cindy greeted this development with hysterics never before experienced in Bubba’s household. He helped his wife into a chair when she almost fainted at the sight. Pandemonium reined and Mandy ran through it all, barking and whining in confusion.

  A visit to the veterinarian cost Bubba 30 dollars. The vet explained that although it was rare, it was not unknown for a dog to shed its entire coat after a radical change in diet. He had treated the tribe’s animals on several occasions, and knew the pets were fed whatever table scraps and cooking grease could be scraped into a feed bowl. Since Mandy no longer ate such oil-rich foods, she compensated by shedding her coat.

  Bubba took Mandy home and told his family the news. His wife and daughter were relieved, but it still bothered them to look at the bald dog—a dog without hair is indeed a truly distressing sight.

  In time, hair did return...somewhat. To the dismay of all, Mandy grew only some of her hair back—in small patches. Even after a month, no further hair appeared. Apparently Mandy was destined to look like some freaky sideshow exhibit found at a circus.

  Bubba’s wife finally put her foot down. She was tired of watching Cindy burst into tears each time Mandy entered the room, nor was she too thrilled having to look at the dog herself. Bubba eventually admitted defeat and went shopping for a new dog.

  Mandy, who had since earned the new name of Patches, became a permanent resident at Freddy and Bubba’s filling station. Freddy treated the dog as though it were any normal pet—the unsightly patches of sparse hair with surrounding pink skin never bothered him. Besides, Patches made a great watchdog—she always barked when a customer arrived, or a car drove by, or a bird sang, or the wind blew through the trees. She did, however, develop the bad habit of passing gas while sitting at Freddy and Bubba’s feet.

  Old George’s third, and final, shoe dropped after first week with Patches at the station. Edgar arrived one afternoon and found the time to sit with Freddy and Bubba while sipping a brew. When Edgar saw Patches, he reflected the dog looked somewhat like the mutt old farmer Samuel had sold to an Indian living down towards Ashville. When Bubba asked if Edgar recalled the Indian’s name, Edgar replied: “Oh yeah…George something or other…good deal too! Let the dog go for just two dollars!”

  Three: The Flaming Chicken

  As mentioned, when work around the station slowed, Freddy and Bubba sat around and talked. November’s chilly winds drove the boys inside for the winter and they ventured outside only for customers. However, since these visits were followed by long periods of inactivity, they decided to at least be comfortable.

  With a little shuffling of equipment and shelves, they converted one of the maintenance bays into a “rest” area. Freddy brought in a couch—complete with end tables and lamps. Bubba bought some surplus rug the local outlet had been trying to unload. What mattered that the rug’s color could only be described as “early American pizza?” Besides, Patches’ occasional barfing episodes were almost unnoticeable amid the colorful swirls. Additionally, the bay/rest area contained a working fireplace large enough for a good fire, warming the entire shop.

  It was a slow Saturday—even slower than the usual slow, and the boys sat before the fire passing the time watching the 19-inch television sitting in one corner. Patches sat near t
he end of the couch, listening to her two masters and quietly observing their body gestures. She especially enjoyed watching Freddy while he waved his arms, speaking loudly and pointing at the screen.

  Fortunately for Patches, understanding Freddy or Bubba, or the noise from the television, eluded her. Otherwise she might, in some primeval, instinctive manner, have felt some trepidation regarding the future. But they were obviously not mad—excited maybe—so Patches assumed everything was okay.

  “I tell ‘ya, Bubba, this guy on TV’s got the answers! He’s right—it’s not how much you invest…it’s recognizing the opportunity when it comes knocking!” Freddy turned off the television, the show now over. “It could happen to us. We just need to be ready! Remember, we don’t have to start big.”

  Bubba, of course did not disagree, he just too well remembered other get-rich-quick schemes resulting in disaster, or yielding so small a profit as to make the enterprise simply not worth the effort. Now Freddy, with the help of Edgar, had happened upon a venture seeming profitable and requiring little effort.

  Edgar had tried to deliver a special mail order needing careful handling to a farmer living to the north. However, the elderly gentleman sternly rejected the shipment after one glance at the delivery forms.

  “Take ‘em back…there’s been a mistake!” was his only explanation. So Edgar called Freddy with the plan. Considering the delivery’s nature and the fact the large package was C.O.D., Edgar would not have to go through the trouble of returning it if someone paid the bill.

  Bubba tried to imagine all the problems that might arise if he agreed to this idea. He asked some good questions, but Freddy had answers with all the details.

  “But…Freddy,” Bubba protested one last time, “Where the heck are we going to put them? It’s too cold outside—they’d freeze! They’ll have to be inside! In here! It’s going to get crowded after a while…”

  “No problem there,” said Freddy as though plainly understanding things beyond Bubba’s imagination. “We’ll fence off the other bay! Move the tools and tables to one end and there’ll be plenty of room in here! We’ll put in some laying boxes with hinged lids and fill them with clean hay. It’ll work I tell ‘ya!”

  Bubba still had not really agreed to the plan when Edgar arrived with the package. He simply realized that further protests would be a wasted effort. It was better to maintain the peace and cooperate. Who knew? They might even make a little money.

  Edgar received Freddy’s cash—$29.89 total—and once the papers were signed, wished them good luck, promising to stop by soon to see how things were going.

  Freddy unfastened the bindings and lifted the lid, revealing the warm, padded interior. The immediate result was an increase in the volume of ambient noise within the office’s cramped space. For within the box squirmed 100 baby chicks, happy and healthy. All, as Freddy explained, just waiting to grow enough to start laying big eggs—eggs that could be sold to customers or anyone who loved the taste of farm fresh fare. “You just feed them grain and scraps and they grow. What could go wrong?”

  The chicks remained in the box for two days while Freddy and Bubba built the coup in the cleaned bay. Bubba’s experience at carpentry proved invaluable and soon, a solid, wood frame fence enclosed the area. The chicken wire was taught and well secured and two gates of different size provided access and laying boxes lined the wall. The enclosure was large, the room warm and the bay’s garage door could be raised whenever the floor needed hosing.

  For a while things proceeded normally and Bubba sometimes turned the couch to better watch the chickens’ antics. Freddy admitted a hundred chickens make much more noise than he