When Mocha first fell ill (see “Gone Awry”), I regarded the prospect of toting a chicken along on our anniversary trip as only marginally more acceptable than that of having a toddler in tow. I have to confess that I spent about twenty-four hours hoping for a hasty demise.
But after two days of intensive care, Mocha had perked up considerably. Since reuniting her with the flock seemed premature and asking a sitter to provide the requisite TLC unreasonable, that left two options. A) Make chicken soup or B) load Mocha up in the Birdmobile and hit the road.
The probable breakdown of family relations upon Brianna’s return from DC, among other considerations, swayed me toward option B.