It went down pretty much like we planned. Rye an’ Nina went ’round back with the rest of the meat. We made Nina the lookout an’ gave her a handheld radio. She watched through the barred, back-room window while Rye unlocked the back door. Naturally, the noise attracted the cat’s attention an’ he come runnin’.
Nina give me the word, an’ I slipped in the front, scooted ’round the counter, an’ grabbed the back-room door handle.
“Homer!” she yelled. “He’s comin’ your way.”
I froze.
“Homer, he’s turned around. He’s goin’ for Rye!”
Fortunately for all concerned, both doors to the back room open in. When the tiger jumped at Rye, he knocked the back door shut. Then I jerked the front door shut, an’ we had the cat bagged.
That was one critter down an’ four hundred to go.
Rye got us a Mason jar of brew an’ the four of us sat on the porch while we considered the problem.
Across the street, the park was full of people—young families an’ old folks; courtin’-age members of both sexes; newlyweds an’ old married folks; children of every description; an’ chickens—four hundred of ’em. Chickens on the grass an’ in the bushes, chickens under the tables an’ the cars an’ trucks parked along the street. Even a chicken atop the head of the Civil War statue. The chicken truck driver had given up an’ was sittin’ on the front bumper of the stock van, swiggin’ somethin’ out of a paper bag.
Rye said, “’Cept for them chickens, this’d be a near perfect day.” Great minds think alike.
Nina said, “How ’bout we get someone with a cow dog to come an’ herd ’em in the truck?”
“Nah,” D.W. said. “Most folks spend too much time tryin’ to teach their dogs not to chase chickens to go for that.”
“’Sides,” Rye added. “You can’t herd chickens.”
All three of ’em looked at me. Nina said, “You’re allus jus’ full a great ideas, Homer. What do we do?”
I looked across the street an’ thought hard. My ma always said, “Live horse an’ you’ll get grass.” I’d a been happy to get even a half-assed idea, just then. An’ just then, I did.
A couple middle school–age kids give it to me. 4H-ers. One of ’em, in his Sunday-best suit, grabbed a hen an’ yelled to a buddy, “Bet I can get more of ’em than you!”
His friend naturally pounced on the next nearest bird. Both of ’em suddenly found theirselves with the problem of what to do with the bird he had, to free his hands up for another catch.
I stood up an’ yelled, “Hey kids!” Both of ’em froze as I started cross the street, trailin’ my posse. When I got near enough I didn’t have to yell, I pointed at the stock van an’ said, “Bring them hens over there. That fella’ll give you a nickel for every one you bring ’im live.”
The chicken truck driver heard me an’ stood up. “In a pig’s eye!”
I fixed him with my sternest Law Enforcement frown an’ said, “We got fines for litterin’ an’ creatin’ public nuisances, if you get my drift. An’, given time, I could prob’ly find half a dozen other laws apply. It’d sure cost you more’n a measly twenty bucks.”
He swallowed hard. “I guess a nickel apiece isn’t too bad. But what about those …” He pointed to the chicken on the barbecue.
“Salvage,” I said. “None of the ones we cooked up was alive.”
“Are you going to pay me for them?”
I tried to look hurt. “They’re your contribution to this party. After all, you convened it.” I eyed the bag he’d been pullin’ on an’ said, “An’ it ’pears to me, you’re enjoyin’ yourself as well as the next man.” Which pretty much put an end to his objections.
It took about a minute an’ a half for word to get ’round to all the kids about the “easy” money to be made. Then Rye, D.W., Nina, an’ I just had to sit there an’ keep tally as the young-uns rounded up the stock. Turned out to be the most entertainin’ picnic game we’d ever come up with in West Wheeling.