There’s a chicken in my rearview mirror. I look over my shoulder and see it standing on the trunk, pecking at the rear window. I pull over onto the shoulder and get out of the car. When the chicken sees me coming, it flutters down to the ground and starts running away, up the highway. I chase it. I look stupid running around after it. I can’t quite catch it. It’s harder to catch a chicken than it looks in the movies. Finally I’m able to grab it and hold it upside down by its legs. It’s clucking and flapping and making a racket.

I go back to the car, but you’ve locked the doors. You open the window a crack and say you don’t want no chicken in the car with you. I say, Fine. I’ll put it in the trunk. You say, What? Alive? Just running around in there. I say, Sure. You say, No way. I say, What? Do you want me to kill it? You say, Yeah. I say, I’m not gonna kill it. I don’t kill chickens. I’m a vegetarian, don’t you remember? You say, Well, then leave it here. I say, On the road? You say, Well, that’s where it came from. I say, Okay.

I bend down as if to put the chicken on the ground. You unlock the car doors and I open the driver’s side door and get in. I’ve still got the chicken in my hand. I reach back and put the chicken on the back seat. It starts running around and clucking a lot.

You bastard, you say. I’m not sitting in a car with no chicken. No one’s forcing you, I say. You can get out if you want, but the chicken’s staying. It’s my new pet. You say, Fine. And you open the door and get out of the car. You start walking up the road, to let me know you’re calling my bluff. You don’t think I’d leave without you. I don’t know; I think I might have. But you’ve left your door open and the chicken hops out. It starts running up the road after you. I get out of the car, too. There’s no point in leaving with neither you nor the chicken.

I look up the road and see the chicken’s at your heels. It’s coming up behind you. Watch out! I shout, but too late. The chicken hops onto your foot and starts jumping up and down. You kick it off. It comes right back. Get it away, you shout. Relax, I say. I think it just wants to be your friend. It’s not going to hurt you. Really? You don’t believe me. The chicken presses its head against your leg and rubs and cuddles. I think you’re right, you say. How cute.

You end up picking up the chicken and carrying it back to the car yourself. It endeared itself to you and won you over. It continues to give you a lot of affection, more affection than I knew a chicken could give. It sits on your lap all the way home, purring in a clucky way and clucking in a purry way. You decide to adopt it as a pet and I’m a little jealous because I wanted it to be my pet, but really it’s only fair since it likes you better.