Years ago, when we lived in the big cedar house on Hudson Road, overlooking Little Skookum Inlet, in the middle of the forest, I had a pet chicken, a beautiful hen, lovely beyond all others I’ve ever seen up to this day, who always sat on my shoulder. My chicken’s name was Alice, named for Lord Chancellor, The Right Honorable Sir Thomas More’s courageous wife, Alice.
“I married a lion”, declared Thomas at their tearful goodbye in the cell just before More’s beheading as a Saint and martyr to King Henry VIII's murderous political libido, and the founding of the Church of England (Church of Henry), in a battle of wills between Henry, Pope Clement VII and Saint Tom..
Alice and I would survey our paradise of flowering trees on the verdant hillside and the salmon filled inlet from the high deck, leaning on the railing together. The salmon were so thick they had to constantly jump, taking turns in the crowded water. We enjoyed the warm sunshine for hours, reading wonder-filled books in one of the luxurious Adirondac chairs, Alice content on my shoulder. You may ask what happened when Alice had to poop...
Alice was the best pet chicken any man could possibly wish for, bar none.
One of our most favorite stories that we read told of Tarzan, Lord of the Jungle. Tarzan was innocently leaping from tree to tree one fine day, when a band of crazed cannibals ambushed and killed him. They devoured him almost immediately, except for the lining of his stomach which they stretched over a hollow log to make a bongo drum, and gave it to the son of the chief cannibal.
The boy was delighted with his new drum and played it constantly for weeks. Until one day, he came crying to his father the chief. "Daddy," he whimpered, "my bongo drum rotted away."
"Son," replied the chief, "you can’t serenade a lady on bongo drums,
nor can you play
‘Tarzan’s Tripe Forever’”