The family next door got a chicken as a pet for their kids. They called it McChick after the McDonald’s chicken sandwich.
The kids carried it around everywhere. Sometimes, it would come over and roam around our yard, clucking and scratching the ground without the kids.
At first, I would run it off. Gradually, McChick worked her way into my heart like many dogs in my life had done.
McChick could not go on point for quail, flush pheasant, retrieve ducks, or tree a squirrel, but she would leave me an egg once in a while behind a bush.
I would bend down to pet her or pick her up in my arms. She kept me company as I worked in my yard.
I worried about her. I did not want her to get out on the road and get run over. There were several neighborhood dogs.
