CHICKEN DINNER

Working at a supermarket, I was sometimes tempted—against my better judgement—to buy a roasted chicken from the hot case in the store. “Don’t do it,” my co-workers  in the kitchen advised. I listened. They should know. They’re the ones who open the packages of frozen chicken and stick the carcasses on the roasting spits of the industrial rotisserie, whose buzzer and red light signal when the chickens are sufficiently cooked to pass the bare minimum of the health code standards. What my co-workers didn’t understand was what drove my obsession in the first place.

When my older brother John and I were in high school, we once bought a roasted chicken from the local supermarket. “Barbecue Chicken” I believe it was called. It was good marketing, it made it sound exotic somehow. New Jersey is not famed for its barbecue.

So we got home with this chicken and placed it on the top of the stove in its aluminum pan. What we were planning to do with it—other than heat it in the oven I don’t remember. We didn’t have any side dishes planned. I think we were just excited to split a chicken between us. It seemed indulgent and rebellious and liberating in some vaguely adolescent way. My brother had a driver’s license and we could go out for pizza! Or in this case, buy a chicken.

Why we stepped out of the kitchen, I don’t know. The two of us couldn’t have been gone for more than a minute. I should mention at this point that we did leave the family dog, Luke, alone in the kitchen with the chicken.

When we came back into the kitchen the chicken was gone! The pan was still on top of the stove, seemingly undisturbed. There was no chicken bones on the floor, no signs of a struggle—and Luke looked up at us with the clear-eyed innocence of a small child when we asked him if he ate the chicken.

Luke was a brown Labrador retriever, a “chocolate Lab” as they say. He had his own ideas of what a family dog’s responsibilities were, meaning he basically did whatever the hell he wanted, whenever he wanted to. Obedience was not in his vocabulary. He was more of an anarchist (without of course, the annoying self-righteous political rhetoric that accompany his human counterparts).

So what happened to the chicken? My brother and I were dumbfounded. How could the dog jump up to grab the chicken at the top of the stove without knocking the pan to the floor or disturbing it any way?  There wasn’t even a greasy spot! The back door was open. Could someone have just waltzed in, taken the chicken and left? It was insane.

Could a dog swallow an entire chicken, bones and all?  Just like that?  John decided to call the Humane Society and find out.

Yes, he was told, it was entirely possible for a dog to swallow an entire chicken. Without a trace, no less. It was also highly dangerous for the dog, because the bones could tear up his digestive system. The solution was to give the dog a bowl of hydrogen peroxide as an emetic. That should do the trick.

My brother filled up a cereal bowl with peroxide.  We went outside with the dog. “Luke”, he crooned, “Luuuuuuuuke…” He waved  it around enticingly, getting the dog’s full attention before placing the bowl down in front of him.

Luke greedily slurped up the bowl’s contents in a flash before doing a double-take.

“What the fuck you just give me?’ his expression seemed to say.

I must say we were intrigued to see the results of the hydrogen peroxide. And we didn’t have to wait long.

Now in my mind’s eye, the chicken emerged in undigested pieces before re-assembling itself as an intact roasted chicken, strutting around on drumsticks, squawking (despite being headless) like something out of a Bugs Bunny cartoon while Luke dropped his head in shame and my brother and I laughed hysterically.

The truth was somewhat messier but no less satisfying.

The dog did drop his head guiltily while we laughed at his discomfort. But on reflection, we commended him on his amazing skill to seize a chicken from a stovetop and eat it whole without leaving a clue. He brightened up right away, his tail wagging. After all, a good story is worth way more than a roasted chicken, especially a barbecue chicken from New Jersey.