Many years ago, my husband, George, had a secretary who had a young son.  One Easter, the secretary–I’ll call her Mary to protect her identity from any animal rights group–and her husband bought little Bobby a chick several weeks before Easter.  The family also had a German shepherd, a large but gentle dog, Mary said, who adored that little bird.  She told stories of how the dog allowed the chick to sit on his face, to run across his back.  The dog even carried the chick around on the top of his head.  It was so very cute.

On Easter Sunday, they headed for church and left the chick and the dog alone, together, as usual.  When they returned home, they couldn’t find the chick anywhere.  They looked all over and even called it because chicks are so good at coming when their names are called.  Finally, they decided, the chick had escaped from the house somehow.

Does anyone want to guess what George thought happened to it?