The scanner crackled in the newsroom Monday and we were able to make out the words, “chickens,” and “in the middle of the road.”

Like all good reporters, we went immediately on alert.

Dead chickens?

Live ones?

Chickens stranded mid-crossing?

We didn’t know.

Then we heard an officer give the location of the alleged fowl play, a road near the local poultry plant.

That’s when we realized: Some death-row chickens had made a run for it.

Charges of attempting to elude police could be forthcoming. This kind of excitement is what we live for.

I picked up the phone and called our photographer, who was out on assignment.

“Kim,” I said, “I need you to get to Hobbs Street and shoot some chickens in the road.”

Sending paparazzi to take advantage of what could very well be the chickens’ last, desperate moments could seem heartless (What if a despondent chicken attempted to leap to his death down a drainage ditch? What if a crazed hen shaved her head in a bid for attention?), but this is the news business and an incident of chickens crossing the road is no joking matter.

Kim, whose name I promised to mention here after she complained I sent her on a “wild chicken chase,” called me twice from her cell phone.

“I don’t see any chickens,” she said finally. “Are you sure you heard right?” She called the police department and got the coop, er, scoop: A single chicken had managed to escape the confines of a poultry truck and hit the road.

Like poultry in motion, the chicken fled and, though we were without an award-winning photo for the front page, we inwardly cheered the chicken’s bravado and wished him Godspeed.