A decade and a half ago or so our family was at the Happiest Place On Earth and I'm not talking about Costco. Although when I go there, some people look like they're at the happiest place on earth. What is so happy about parking a mile away and pushing a cart the size of a flatbed truck through crowded isles and waiting 20 minutes to check out?
Back to the H.P.O.E.--which looks almost like hope only hope is free and H.P.O.E. is the price of one of your kidneys on the black market. But hey, we've all got two, right?
Anywhoo, after a day of fighting about which rides to go on because we had family one--the 4 kids we had in 4 1/2 years and family 2 the 3 that we had every 3 years after the 4--we were famished and stopped to eat at a chicken place after my husband sold the youngest child to pay for the meal. Just kidding. Mostly.
As we're devouring the chicken, my sweet Cassie turns to me and asks, "Where does chicken come from?" Uh oh, the Happiest Place on Earth just got a little less cheery.
What you have to know about Cassie is that she loved animals more than people at that age. And maybe still at this age. And that she adopted a stray cat which she named Lucky Chicken. That about sums it up.
She was so hungry, yet so disturbed. With tears and big heaving sobs, she ate every bite of that chicken.
But here's the kicker or the clucker: After we'd finished eating Cassie said, "Don't you dare throw away those bones!" She arranged them all carefully on a plate. We then followed her to a nearby flowerbed where we dug a shallow grave with our heals. And I don't want to burst your bubble about the H.P.O.E. but there was a r-a-t in that flowerbed. I saw him with my own eyes while I was burying his lunch 2 inches under.
After a short graveside service which may have involved some praying, words of thanks to the chicken, and a song or two, we wiped the chicken grease on our pants, rubbed our muddy shoes off in the grass and made our way back to what makes the H.P.O.E. so darn happy, which apparently is not the chicken.