I wonder about chickens. Do they have feelings, emotions, lust, lament, ambition? Do they have any idea that “crispy fried” or baked or rotisserie will someday be in the same sentence with their name? When I see them in the cages on the big trucks on interstate, looking around, bobbin their heads like teenagers at a concert I wonder, are they suspicious? When I was a kid I had chickens. My favorite was a black giant rooster we named Big Boy. I loved that old rooster. When I found him dead in the chicken house he was still warm. So we ate him crispy fried