The first to greet us was the three-legged dog. He either didn't know, or didn't care, that he was unusual. We were to find out that in this town, he was not all that unusual. By the time the kid with the live squirrel on his shoulder came in, we hardly noticed. I took the squirrel in my hands and petted it. The squirrel preferred the kid. 

We were served a beer in the saloon by the owner, a truly striking woman. What strikes you first is her beard. I swear I'm not making this up. Mind you, her beard would not make a male Amish farmer jealous. Still, compared to the normally facially hirsute member of her gender, she does stand out. We both wondered if she was indeed a woman. She has long hair, goes by a female name, and reportedly has a husband. Moreover, despite an outfit appropriate to our proximity to the arctic circle, she has a figure vaguely suggestive of that of a female. In the absence of some way of getting proof positive, a 
thought too repulsive to dwell on, I am willing to conclude that she very probably is, and 
possibly always has been, female. 

We did not get to meet her husband but were informed of one of his more interesting pastimes. He has a working cannon. He loads the cannon with gun powder and fires a projectile from time to time, sometimes punching holes in the door, bar, and walls. We saw the holes. For projectiles he uses women's panties. Again I'm not making this up. The shredded remains are proudly displayed hanging from the ceiling. We saw those also, although the panty tatters are somewhat difficult to find in the company of several hundred, if not thousands of baseball caps that were contributed by customers. The walls are festooned with business cards. Ours is now among them. The next time you are in beautiful downtown Chicken, Alaska, look for it. Do I take my woman to interesting places or what?