Unfamiliar Prey

You asked for fried chicken. Absurd request. I hunt; I do not prepare banquets. Still, curiosity compelled recon. I navigated off the table, crossing cool tile to scale the kitchen counter via a wooden barstool. A steady rhythmic tick caught my attention. Crouched low beside the breadbox, I tracked the sound. Not poultry. A miniature metal mechanical timer, shaped like a hen. It rattled softly against the polished stone. I nudged it with one claw. Cold, rigid, devoid of meat. The hunt yielded nothing edible, but this high ledge grants an exceptional view of both doorways.