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No head? No problem
It was reported that people stood in long lines, paying 25 cents each to see a live chicken walk around without his head. A lucky few were able to watch Mike's handler feed him with an eyedropper.
And you wondered what we did before the Internet.
After a year and a half with no head, Mike died.
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I remind myself of Mike's story each time I am faced with corralling one or more of our hens to tend to their many needs. It is pointless, I mutter to myself, to use logic. Their brains are so small and useless that they're able to operate without one.
Remember Mike.
Leghorn hens like ours are susceptible to a number of diseases and viruses, including one that attacks and infects their feet, combs and beaks. The skin dries, cracks and eventually bleeds.
Because chickens are nasty creatures, mean-spirited and cannibalistic, they attack any member of their flock perceived as weak.
Blood spells weakness.
As soon as Irene, Ethel and the other hens saw Agnes' bloody toe, they attacked.
If you don't have a dog cage or a cheap one-bedroom apartment to house the injured chicken, you do the next best thing - call the Agway. They'll recommend something called "Rooster Booster Black Salve," an ointment that heals and hides the bloody sores populating your hens' feet.
No, they don't put it on themselves.
And so, there we were, just after dark, chasing chickens.
Again.
I've explained in the past about how the scene from "Rocky" in which Sly Stallone loses 10 pounds chasing chickens around the backyard of a Philly tenement yard is quite realistic.
The hens also read this column and have come to understand that I am old and slow. They know I will give up after just three or four hours of running up and down a hill in the dark. They're younger and faster.
However, I know something they don't.
Equipped with largely useless brains the size of breath mints, chickens absolutely love modern country music. As soon as I popped Kenny Chesney into the boom box, they came running. Propping feet up so that I could apply the black goo that would save us all, they cooed along with "She Thinks My Tractor's Sexy."
There are still black chicken footprints all around the floor of the coop from enthusiastic line dancing.
Mike the Headless Wonder Chicken died in Arizona while on tour in 1946. It is estimated that more than 1 million people came to watch his act during its 18-month run. His life is celebrated with a festival each May in Fruita, Colo.
He was a chicken.
He had no head.
He made his owner an estimated $250,000 in 18 months.
Where's my dull axe?
To hear Scott Paulsen's column, visit www.observer-reporter.com. He can be heard each weekday afternoon from 3 to 7 p.m. on 1250 ESPN Radio.
