Doggie Bag

Tuesday night was chicken night at the restaurant where I worked as a waitress, but on this Tuesday few customers ordered it. "Take some home," said the manager. The chicken was greasy, so I wrapped it in plastic, a box and a bag.

The last customers lingered, and we closed late. Missing the last bus, I began walking home through deserted Milwaukee streets. Unable to afford a cab, I prayed and sang a hymn. God would see me home safely.

But He didn't. A man with a knife leaped out of the shadows, pushed me down a dark side street, and spoke in ugly language of what he'd do when we reached his place on Brady Street. Why had God forsaken me?

Despite my anger, I kept praying. And then, out of nowhere I heard four words. They were very clear, very firm. "Debbie, eat your chicken." What? Was I losing my mind? "Debbie, eat your chicken."

As I was being dragged along, I pulled out a chicken breast, struggling with all the wrappings. Crying too hard to eat, I just carried it in my hand. We reached Brady Street.

Two large dogs rummaged in spilled trash cans. Suddenly the dogs perked up their heads, sniffed the air. Growling, baring teeth, they charged at us. My attacker fled.

The dogs did not lunge at me. They fixed their eyes on the chicken in my hand. I tore off meat and threw it down, where they fought hungrily for it. Dropping pieces every few yards, I got the stray dogs to follow me home. By the time I was safely inside I'd begun to understand.

“Debbie, eat your chicken”—the chicken that had been wrapped too thickly to be smelled by even a dog. But in my hand. . .