This is a true story. It was told to me by my great uncle who lives on a small rural farm in Twisp, WA.
This may belong in the 'meaningless drivel' forum, but there is a lesson to be learned regarding raising chickens, so here goes:
On yet another frosty winter morning at the cabin in Twisp, my uncle goes outside to feed and check on his modest flock. The ground is crunchy and frozen over in places. He's used to it. The flock is used to it, except for one poor hen. He finds her laying dead not far from the coop. He looks her over and can only figure that she wasn't cut for this kind of climate. After two decades of experience, he has a couple rules for his chickens: he doesn't cannibalize them, and he only eats what he kills himself. He thinks he should bury this one to keep it away from the carrion-eaters of the larger variety. But the ground is frozen over and that's a lot of work.
He reluctantly decides to chuck the chook in the creek. The back of his cabin sits against the Methow River that runs through the valley.
To clear the rock embankment and land it in the river, my uncle has to grab the chicken by the legs and underhand toss it with enough force to get the distance.
What he finds out two seconds after that is ice cold water can wake up an unconscious bird pretty quick.
The last thing my uncle sees of his dead chicken is its head popping up out of the water, looking around, wide-eyed, and probably wondering why all the land is moving by so quickly. The two of them are utterly stunned. One more so than the other.
Lesson to learn: If you're not sure if the chicken is dead, a small bucket of ice water will tell you.