The Mostly Good Chicken

Chicken was, by most reasonable standards, a very good dog.

She was not, despite her name, a chicken. She was a small, scruffy thing with ears that flopped down, and a tail that behaved like it had its own opinions about everything

But when she was a puppy, she had made a peeping sound instead of a bark and the name had stuck in the way names sometimes do accidentally, permanently 

Most of the time, Chicken was good.

She was mostly good in the mornings, when she would sit politely. very politely, by the bed and wait for her person to wake up. She would not whine. She would not paw. She would simply sit,

vibrating slightly with hope, willing the sun to rise faster

She was mostly good on walks

trotting mostly beside her person with a pride as though she had personally invented sidewalks

She would glance up every few steps to check in, to make sure they were still together and that everything was still okay

She was sometimes good with other dogs….mostly. 

She was good with people too and she was very good at loving

She loved with her whole small body. When her person came home, Chicken greeted them like a miracle had occurred

When they were sad, she pressed herself against them, steady and warm, as if she could anchor them to the world

Most of the time, Chicken was very, very good.

Except when she wasn’t

Like anytime she discovered the trash 

Or sometimes when she hopped on the coffee table … that was the time with that sandwich.

It is important to understand that Chicken knew she was not supposed to be on the table

She understood this in the same way she understood many things

But the sandwich smelled like everything good in the universe had been carefully assembled between two pieces of bread just for her 

Chicken hesitated

She really did

She stood on her front paws on the edge of the table, caught between good dog and not good dog

Her tail flicked. Her ears twitched  

Then she climbed

The sandwich did not stand a chance.

See Chicken was mostly… but not quite all the way, very good 

Later, when her person came back and said, “Chicken…,” in that soft, disbelieving voice, Chicken felt a complicated feeling

Not quite guilt, not quite regret. Something like … I know… but also… the sandwich.

She lowered her head. She made her eyes big. She attempted to look like a creature who had never, in her life, made a questionable decision.

Still, her person sighed, and then because Chicken was mostly good, laughed a little, too.

There were other times.

The great tissue incident, for example, in which Chicken discovered that boxes of tissues, when sufficiently motivated, could become clouds of soft, floating snow

She had intended to investigate. The chaos had simply… followed

Chicken was mostly good.

Truly. Impressively, even.

But there were other incidents

Like the bed situation.

It happened on a perfectly normal afternoon. Chicken had been doing an excellent job being good. 

following her person from room to room, supervising important activities like “folding laundry” and “staring into the fridge,” and generally existing in a way that suggested she deserved a small award.. Which she did 

At some point, she hopped onto the bed.

She circled once. Twice. Three times, for reasons known only to dogs and ancient ritual

And then, without even a hint of internal conflict

she peed.

She looked down at the situation. Then she looked up. Then back down again, as if hoping it might disappear if she just waited

It did not

When her person walked in, Chicken immediately activated her emergency good dog protocol. 

She lay down very quickly. She made herself small. She arranged her face into an expression that said, I have never done anything wrong in my entire life, and I don’t know why you would even suggest otherwise.

There was a pause

“…Chicken.”

Chicken wagged her tail

slowly, cautiously like someone trying to defuse a bomb with optimism

But she had been doing so well all day

So we can say that she was still a mostly good Chicken 

Then there was the door.

The door was, in Chicken’s opinion, deeply suspicious

And sometimes without warning it would make sounds

Footsteps outside, a bell rang, a key turning, a shadow passing underneath

Unacceptable.

Chicken took her responsibilities very seriously. The moment she detected even the faintest suggestion of “Something Happening” she sprung into action

Her entire body stiffened. Her ears snapped forward. Her tail became a rigid 

And then

BARK.

Not a polite bark

A high pitched whimpering, desperate bark 

She would sprint to the door, barking like a tiny security system that had consumed too much caffeine. 

If the noise continued, so did she

bark after bark after bark, each one more convicted than the last

Her person would say, “Chicken, it’s okay.”

Chicken disagreed

What if it was not okay? What if this was the moment everything changed? What if the door was finally revealing its true nature?

She barked harder, just in case.

Eventually, the door would open, revealing something completely harmless, a friend, a neighbor, a delivery, nothing at all

Chicken would pause

And then, as if nothing had happened, she would trot away, satisfied that she had successfully prevented… something.

Still, she was mostly good.

Chicken had a complicated relationship with toes

Specifically, other people’s toes

Especially when they moved

For the most part, a still foot was fine. Respectable. Non-threatening

But the moment toes wiggled…. just a little, just enough

before she could fully process the situation, she would pounce

Not angrily, but with great enthusiasm and extremely questionable judgment

A quick dart forward. A definitely not appropriate chomp. A tiny yelp from the human attached to the toes

Her tail would start wagging. Fast and hopeful.

“Chicken, no biting toes!”

She’d temporarily jump back, as though she had not, moments ago, declared war on a set of unsuspecting feet

Chicken was mostly good.

She really was.

Even if the bed occasionally betrayed her.

Even if the door was clearly up to something.

Even if the toes… sometimes had it coming.

Mostly good.

And trying her best.

And even in those moments when Chicken was not good, she was never bad.

She was just a small creature in a big world,

And she always, always came back.

Back to sitting politely by the bed

Back to pressing her small body against her person like a promise. “I am here” 

Back to being a mostly good Chicken