Dear Eric, A chicken is a touchy creature. They scatter with dust and feathers and squawking at almost any noise. High-strung, dumb, stinking of ammonia, they peck at their cage corners with nervous pride. Also, they die a lot. When I was drinking heavy and raising chickens, I found the daily burden of dead birds a hindrance to my thirst. I stopped digging single graves and began tossing fowl bodies into my empty silo. Mass burial. Once a week (Sundays) I'd get drunk and stick my head in, mingling words of hope and comfort with mournful bird-like chirps. Well, anyway, you know how sick I got after I sold the farm. Swollen and weak, I finally had to give up even my beer. And, of course, your Dad would have called you by now to let you know I'm dead. I just thought I'd write to tell you that I got to heaven after all and it's not such a bad place. The walls and streets are lined with golden bottles of Miller's, and the angels come flying by with silver trays of whiskey, singing hosannas. Best of all, there's not a damn chicken anywhere. Uncle Al
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