I hate to say how long Prickly John and I have been friends.  If I did, I'd date myself and you'd know how close to ancient I really am.  Suffice to say that we've been palling around for many moons.  As you might guess, we're alike in many ways but different in others.  In short, he's smarter than I am.  And better looking.  And harder working.  And he always got more girls.  Shut up Kelly.

     As they say, opposites attract and I guess that applies to friendship as well as courtship because we haven't grown tired of each other's company yet.  Differences are all in how you look at them I guess.

     I've also heard that after a number of years together, people begin to look alike.  It's the same with pets they say.  I don't know who "they" are but I guess they know what they're talking about.  I don't really think it's true and I'm sure Prickly is hoping it's not.  It would be a terrible thing to do to the boy.  I have begun to notice that his belt buckle is getting harder to see and there's a little more bag in his britches but I don't think it means anything.

     I've learned a lot from him over the years, most notably, a respect for nature as well as a love for just being out there.  He's teaching me to be a camp cook and my increased belt size is genuine proof that I'm learning.  He's also taught me amateur archeology along with a feel for the past and gratitude for those little pieces of history that I find.  In return, I taught him about rodeo.  It seemed like a fair trade.

     Prickly and I are often seen heading out on wilderness adventures with our usual array of tenderfoot niceties in tow.   Still, my family worries about what might happen while we're out there, particularly fearing that I'll waste away to nothingness from lack of food.  Silly people.  Considering that my belly alone would feed a coyote family for six months, we're talking about major waste here.  But still, my family envisions bleached bones resting beside a barren camp where we withered and finally died from lack of nourishment.

     They apparently have little conficence in Prickly's abilities as a wilderness cook.  I, on the other hand, have walked days in 100+ degree heat and still managed to gain weight which is button-snapping proof of his culinary expertise.  At breakfast, I routinely stuff my little cheeks with bacon, eggs, fried potatoes, biscuits and fish if we've managed to catch any.  And we save the heavy eating for later in the day.

     Although we partake of a variety of meats, Prickly particularly likes chicken whether it be fried, grilled or barbecued and I have enjoyed more than my share of the little cluckers.  I accidentally bit him once so now he makes sure not to violate my personal space.  For safety's sake, he's expanded it to a full six foot circle around my plate.

     I've never really thought about chickens much except that I particularly like them fried, a fact that never ceases to rile Dr. Sawbones each time I make my obligatory yearly pilgrimage of pain.  Of course, those of you who've been there realize that I err in making that statement.   We never experience pain from a doctor.  Only a "little discomfort".

     Last visit, he asked me if I was staying on my diet.  I said, "Nope!".  He said, "I appreciate your honesty."

     He asked if I had stopped drinking.  I said, "Nope!".  He just sighed.

     He asked if I had stopped smoking cigars.  I said, "Nope!"  He said, "Why can't you just do the right thing and lie like my other patients do?"

     But what's wrong with a little fried food anyway?  Isn't it enough that we're punished daily with horror stories pertaining to cholesterol, LDL, HDL, triglycerides, sodium and saturated fat?  And the stuff they offer us as substitutes would make an Afghan goat barf up a hub cap.  I don't know about you but I have a real problem eating tasteless mush and cardboard.

     It would appear, at least from the nutritionist's point of view, that the one savior we have is the chicken breast which can be healthfully prepared most any way other than that which I prefer.  At the risk of sounding repetitive, I will repeat.......fried!

     I have been asked, "Which came first, the chicken or the egg?"

     I answer, "Who gives an Orwillian crap?  Bring me both.  Preferably drowned in some sort of saturated lard."

     But the chicken breast seems to be the most popular food on the planet.  You can get them boiled, baked, broiled, grilled, lemon-peppered and there's some stuff I've seen on them that I don't think I'd risk damage to my tongue on.  Just give me a skillet, some flour and a pound or so of Crisco.  I'm good to go.

     I was at a local cafeteria recently and noticed what appeared to be an entire flock of poultry bosoms on the grill which led me to wonder (no ma'am, I don't know why) what they did with the rest of the bird.  Surely they didn't just let them go or we'd have multitudes of stunned, breastless chickens roaming the countryside asking, "What the CRAP is this?!"  The horror.

     "Henry!  What have you done now?"  Come on.  You knew he was going to catch the blame.

     I guess it's good that chickens don't breast feed or we would have probably wiped out an entire species by now.  How would mom explain to baby that some human unceremoniously poached her breast for breakfast along with, most probably, his sister?

     And while we're very loosely on the subject, how would one go about raising a boneless chicken?  I'm not sure I'd like to see it even if I could.  But, it would be interesting to see a boneless chicken race.  Oh, the thrill of seeing the 100-yard dash completed in just under six hours.

     How about a boneless chicken Olympics?  We could hold it every fourth January in Bo Pilgrim's back yard.  Think of it.  the high thud.  The 50-yard drag.  Oh, the hush of the audience as America's champion lies draped over the balance beam.

     It was about this time that the idea hit me...RODEO!  The possibilities virtually boggle the mind.  We could have chicken milking competitions if enough contestants could be found with teeny-weeny fingers and a rump that would fit on the stool.

     A boneless rooster could crow the National Anthem although I'm not quite sure how he'd do it.  I envision said rooster making every American prould as he mumbles his way through it.  Standing at attention would be a problem and I doubt he'd be anybody's George Strait but, then again, this probably wouldn't be a high-dollar show.  At least not to begin with.

     No rodeo would be complete without roping and come on, boneless chickens have got to be easy.  Of course, the heeler might be in a bit of a quandary but I can't think of everything for you.

     How about chicken wrestling?  Bareback chicken?  Saddle chicken?  Tennessee Walking Chicken?  Barrel racing.......naw.

     Of course, we can't forget the elusive and much dreaded Brahma chicken but that might be carrying things a little too far.  I don't know though.  Chicken-nanza?  Think about it.  Apache Chicken?  Chicken Bones?  Chicken on a Chain?  Hey, somebody knows something.

     I've never seen a particularly brilliant chicken except the one I played tic-tac-toe with at the Ft. Worth Stock Show.  She beat me several times but I have it on good authority that she cheated.  She had to have had something up her.......feathers.

     Nor have I seen a hunting chicken, an attack chicken, a drug sniffing chicken or a seeing eye chicken.  But who can deny the magnificence of the chicken fried steak.

     So, what about chickens?  Actually, I think they are mostly misunderstood as we all are at times.  I'm reminded of the occasion whereas my Uncle Roy asked me to slop the hogs while I was visiting on his farm.  I guess I misunderstood because I thought he said "slap" the hogs which seemed like a pretty strange request even from uncle Roy.  But, I figured, who am I to argue?  So I went about the task with as much enthusiasm as I could muster.

     Uncle Roy never looked at me the same after that.

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