Low miles.
Good warranty.
There were hundreds to choose from. They all looked alike to me. The chicken dealer suggested something in a red and set us up with six. I built them a little house out back with little beds and basic cable and set up little savings accounts for their college funds.
It quickly became apparent that one of the chicks was different. Each day five chickens played chicken games in the fresh air while the sixth sat alone, in the coop, reading.
One night I heard some commotion in the chicken coop, grabbed my shotgun and headed out to kill the intruder. (Actually, that's not true. I grabbed a flashlight and tripped over one of the dogs on my way down the steps, hit my knee in the dark and, after making my way to the freezer for some ice, limped out to the chicken coop.) When I arrived, I found the former recluse Chicken Number Six in a corner, bloody and dead, her eyes pecked out.
The door had been locked.
It looked like an inside job.
While I inspected, the other five hens pretended to be preoccupied, looking out the doorway, playing checkers, acting as if nothing had happened.
The police arrived. "Looks like a gang-related slaying," said the officer. "I better take some eggs in for questioning. How about two dozen?"
He then explained that chickens, like some jungle tribesmen and commodities traders, are cannibalistic (State troopers in our neck of the woods are taught these facts at the Academy.)
The policeman was not alone in his knowledge of henhouse gangland slayings. There are many chicken enthusiasts, just as there are people who like stamp collecting. I know they exist because later that week I received an offer from Backyard Poultry Magazine. "You are cordially invited," the card read, "to examine the all-new Backyard Poultry Magazine and discover a wonderful new world of poultry."
Wait a minute, I thought. How did I get on their mailing list? How do these people know we have chickens? And then it dawned on me. I walked out to the coop. Waving the offer from Backyard Poultry Magazine at them, I said, "Don't think I don't know how they got our address. No going to the mailbox for any of you from now on! And don't think I haven't noticed the missing beers from the fridge in the garage."
You have to keep your eye on them every minute.
As I turned to leave, I noticed the five of them gathered together, quietly whispering.
No doubt they were plotting their next crime.
I went inside to warn the dog.
To hear Scott Paulsen's column, visit www.observer-reporter.com.
Byron Smialek's column, which appeared in this space on Thursdays, will now run in Sunday's sports section.