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Almost  every week I buy a grocery store roast chicken;  the kind that’s been going round and round for hours in one of those big, display-case-like, glass ovens.  

The  work is done for me and it’s tasty – so there.

This  week when I came home from the store and put my grocery bags down, Dutch made a beeline for that roast chicken.  I had it balancing on top of a few boxes of cereal, just peeking over the edge of the paper bag, waiting to be the first item out of the bag – well, it was. 

Dutch  sunk her teeth in and scrambled down the hall, taking my dinner, and the hallway runner, with her. 

I was so startled; I jumped back and tripped over Kitty.  I caught myself going down, and yelping at Kitty and yelling at Dutch, made my way into the hall, where she was looking back at me, plastic encased chicken clutched firmly in her maw. 

I’m still  yelling, “Drop that chicken,”  Kitty is purring-up my ankles, and Dutch isn’t moving, when I realized that Dutch’s jaws and the chicken are moving in synchronization. 

Then it hit me – it may not have started out this way but the chicken was stuck!

Ever since I had one of those plastic clam-shell cases pop open and leak chicken grease all over a bag of groceries, I’ve had the deli-counter clerk over wrap that container with heat-sealed plastic wrap, just in case.

But now, Dutch’s teeth were caught in the wrappings, and my 75-pound black Lab couldn’t get that self-clinging plastic wrapped dangling chicken unstuck from her incisors. 

Wadda’ hoot – we’re trying not to laugh, but Kitty and I were now watching Dutch use one paw, then both, in a fruitless attempt to pry the plastic chicken case off her teeth and outta’ her mouth.

Finally,  after getting ourselves under control, and I’m sure I heard Kitty snort at least once, we moved toward Dutch, as she sat up and sheepishly presented me with her plunder.  

I moved in for the kill and found myself looking into her big, black, and embarrassed pitiful eyes.  Kitty even purred in support – or pity maybe.   

Oh, how humiliating – the chicken had won.

As I sympathetically tore, split, and peeled away the clingy-wrap from Dutch’s teeth and mouth, that  DAMN plastic clam-shell case sprang open, deliberately pouring its load of grease and goo though my fingers onto the hallway runner, while I somehow managed to ensnare the flying chicken between my knees and away from nosey Kitty.

Later,  long after  the clean up, Dutch and Kitty were still licking the carpet, as I was enjoyed my roasted chicken and two glasses of white wine dinner.

So there  – Kate

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