Jake looked at her from the corner of his eye. “You’re not going to break anything, are you?”

She crossed her arms over her chest and said, “Hmmm.” It was the sort of snorting sound you might expect a bull to make before charging.

“I probably shouldn’t ask such a delicate question, but who are you talking to, and why the devil are you so mad?”

“Myself, and because I’ve been replaced by a chicken. A seven-pound Rhode Island Red that can cluck ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’ and count with its stupid chicken toes.”

“I don’t think chickens have toes.”

“Ha!” Amy said. “A lot you know.”

It had been several years since Penn State veterinary school, but Jake was almost certain chickens didn’t have toes. Probably not the best time to press the issue, he decided.

The engine finally caught and three loud volleys exploded from the tailpipe. Amy had never been in a car that backfired. She had always equated such mechanical indignities with human intestinal problems. She slunk into her seat, praying not to be recognized. Life could only get better. This had to be the bottom, didn’t it?

Jake exhaled a long sigh of contentment. Everything was working perfectly. Life couldn’t get any better. “Where to, my lady?”

“King’s Park West. Wheatstone Drive.”

The car chugged out of the parking lot and headed west. “About this chicken…”

“I’d like to feed it to my cat.”

“Not many people are replaced by a chicken.”

“Yeah. Lucky me.”

“Just exactly what sort of job did you have?”

“Lulu the Clown. I hosted a daytime television show for preschoolers on one of the local stations. I sang a little and danced a little and told stories.”