Chicken

At the tag end of our Inverness weekend, we stopped by the Marin Sun Farms store just outside of Point Reyes Station to pick up some provisions for the freezer. Their meats are no cheaper out there but they are always favorites, so we bite the bullet and pay the price.

As I was waiting for our order to be wrapped, I noted a small container by the checkout, the kind of container with which enterprising retailers hope to attract you to reopen your purse for an impulse purchase.  Often that space is filled with candy or magazines, batteries or disposable razors - this one was filled with dried chicken feet.

I stood there for quite some time wondering what in the world one uses dried chicken feet for?  Soup stock?  Practical jokes?  What?

I considered buying some for our dog, Cora, but discarded that idea because of the bones. The guy behind the counter, however, discounted my fears, reassuring me that they do no harm to dogs, so I bought two.  The counter guy popped them into a small brown bag separate from our other order and we headed out to the car.

Cora hardly let us put them away in the truck, sniffing the bag with enthusiasm and giving us her most winsome looks, head cocked, ears eagerly forward and tail waving.  We decided to wait until we got home, just in case the combination of chicken feet and swaying car was too much for her stomach.  As soon as we arrived, she hopped out of the car and, putting on her best pointer imitation (not easy for a dog whose heritage, while unknown, seems by all appearances to lean toward the collie/shepherd family), followed those chicken feet closely into the house.

She sat nicely for her treat, accepting it gently from my hand and carrying it to her favorite spot on the corner of the area rug in the living room. Enthusiastic crunching was heard and no vestige of chicken foot was left on the rug.  She licked her lips and looked for more.

I thought about tasting the second one, just to see what it was like, but I was chicken. She got that one, too.