Once years ago at the large animal veterinary hospital where I worked as the receptionist, animal handler, and lab technician, I had a woman come into the office requesting an appointment to receive shipping papers. This wasn't an unusual request; we often provided papers for horses and cattle and sheep to ship across state lines.

The woman was quite the sight, dressed in tight black clothes that puckered around the lines of her bra, bulges of her body straining against the clothing that was just a little too tight, slicked-back black hair bleached red on the ends, nails long and purple, rings on every finger, gold bangle bracelets and a big watch. She also had about twenty fine gold chains of different lengths dangling pendants between her ample breasts, little gold charms of roosters and pot leafs and the number 4 and a cat, and I didn't want to stare but I wanted to see them all.

She wanted shipping papers for Mexico, she said, and I asked which animal and since I hadn't seen her before asked if she were a client, she said roosters and no, which made my job easier because the practice worked only with livestock mammals. Horses, cattle, llamas, goats, sheep, pigs. No chickens. No fowl of any kind.

She asked how could she ship these animals through California to Mexico, she needs papers for them. They're fighting cocks, she said with a touch of pride, and California has strict rules about that.

Sorry, no chickens.

And then I felt a sense of responsibility, because I recommended she take them to the clinic in town that does treat birds, and maybe even chickens. The Cat and Bird Clinic, downtown, in the big old Victorian. The place that treats parrots and Persians, and the staff that would surely be appalled by the mere mention of the word "fighting cocks." When I got home and related the incident to S he laughed hard and said I was funny. In truth, I was just trying to help, I swear.