We’d enjoyed seeing the chicken on President Street for years, when suddenly it disappeared. It was stuffed, so it couldn’t have gotten up and walked away, but what happened?
We wondered if the people in that rowhouse had just moved, but everything else looked the same. Maybe they’d moved the chicken to their back garden, or taken it inside, where they could enjoy it more.
One afternoon a man was coming out the door.
"Did you move your chicken?" I asked.
"No," he answered with a frown, "it was stolen."
"I’m so sorry, we loved your chicken," I muttered sadly.