Chicken Little

November 19, 2012

Now who’s the chicken?

Scraggly feathered fugitive hens wobble ‘round the yard, scratching in every nook and cranny for juicy bugs and delicate fresh stems. Double trouble! Negihna and Birnabem (the cats) turn the other cheek when the “girls” strut by. It’s as though the sparse felines are embarrassed they cannot take the barren creatures down despite the fact that the chickens are in the bird family. The drowsy dogs also scoot around the two-legged plumed foe. Though there are just two stragglers they seem to be everywhere at once; inside the slippery livingroom, pecking on the porch, out back by the pervious coop, struggling with worms in front of the slick verandah, even in the darkened bathroom and on the marbled tabletop. After an efficient shower I nearly slip on the blob of unashamedly laid excrement plopped indiscriminately in front of the hollow door. Shameless!

The chickens continue their prancing parade until Ana and Jo arrive. Instantly the girls are corralled into the prison we refer to as a coop. The obvious unpopular one (she has a mere handful of tail feathers covering her rear) escapes and ensnared adeptly once again. Both dogs race around excitedly, one caged and whiney while the other incessantly circles around shrilly barking at the unimpressive game. 

Meanwhile a venomous snake is caught in the fields above, head smashed-in to ensure instantaneous and certain death. Solante trophies it ‘round the yard on the end of a wrist-sized stick. I requested a keepsake photo in an obituary tone. She promptly laid it on the small grey stones in a majestic straight line. Life and death come easy on the farm.

Seven more sacrificial hens run around and around then eventually ceremoniously trapped and delivered to the slaughter farm this balmy afternoon. Two startled fowls managed to elude and escape, play “catch me if you can” while the serious olive-skinned slip of a boy, whitish yippy mixed-breed underfoot dog, two thinner than average drabbish men hurled profanities between nervous laughs and Preta, mostly chasing the other pup, trailed behind. Twenty minutes and merely R$24 in collections later the truck sputtered off with its clucking load.

My quandary involves the medium-sized brown furry spider I spotted lurking behind the livingroom sofa this morning..failed to point him (must be a male-too skulky to be a female!) out to the chickens cavorting through the house..drat! Now I have something else to toss and turn about tonight.

And finally, which comes first, the chicken or the egg?