One Funky Chicken

It was late, I was exhausted, and I really needed gas. I was grateful my 17-year -old son was with me, as I'm a little uncomfortable pulling into a gas station after dark.

I fumbled for my credit card, then reluctantly exited the warm car to meet with the icy air awaiting outside. As I watched the numbers roll digit after digit, something caught my attention to my left. Something orange, something a little below eye level. I turned to get a better look, and after topping off the tank wandered over slowly.

At first examination it looked like stuffed animal, perched on the metal bar that guarded the tanks. Some kid must have left it here, I thought. But then the stuffed animal moved, a slight tilt of the head. My self-preserving half was ready to run, while my journalistic half said "get up closer!". I inched my way, and I honestly couldn't figure out what I was seeing. Boldly I crouched down so I could get a look at its face. Gasp! The bird had a right-leaning beak, sunken wide eyes, elongated neck, and Rastafarian hairdo.

Oddly enough I wasn't really frightened, even though I got near enough for it to peck my face into Swiss cheese. It stared at the ground, not flinching, not fleeing. Does it even know I'm here? Maybe it's injured or in trouble? I lifted my phone and took a picture. And several more. It was totally disinterested in me and my activity.

I ran into the little house where the impassive attendant was flipping through a newspaper. He begrudgingly looked up when I poked my head in. "Excuse me - there's something out there. A bird, possibly. I think it's a chicken," I whispered as if the thing outside could hear me. The attendant looked up slowly, sighed, and said wearily "Isss no chicken, is a rrrrooster," he corrected in a thick Middle Eastern accent. "Oh," I said, followed by an awkward pause. I thought there would be an element of surprise here, but I was probably the 100th person to annoy him that day with a chicken - or rooster - sighting. "Is he ok?" I asked.

The man lifted his shoulders as if to say "how the hell do I know." When he noticed I wasn't satisfied, he impatiently explained that the rooster lived in the house next door and kept making its way over to hang out in the gas station. He is either getting kicked out of the coop by his fellow chicken mates or he's in a snit about something. Or maybe he just likes people, the attendant suggested. His head lowered to let me know he was going to continue reading his paper now.

I walked toward my car, getting one last look at my discovery. My son never left the car.

Either way, this was one of the most peculiar creatures I had ever met in person, and I had to reach out to our resident bird expert Jim Botta for help. He said it is actually a Polish chicken, a domestic breed known for its fancy feathers. Ironic that we were in Riverhead not far from "Polish Town." I never did see the chicken again. I can only hope he lost interest in gas station humans and decided there was no place like home.