I really don’t think I’m designed to catch chickens.

I was at my friend JP’s house the other day and, as I do on most days I’m there, I try to catch their newly-acquired hen, Clementina.

I arrive at their house, take off my shoes in the front, eat something in the kitchen (usually a full meal consisting of beans and tostadas and other yummy stuff), and then go out through the back while donning some flip-flops that belong to JP, Jorge, or Christian.  I like the lime green ones that are too big for my feet.

I get out on the back patio and scan the backyard for signs of the chicken.  My audio and visual systems have become finely tuned to Clementina’s presence.  Once I sense her, I’m off.

Walking, walking faster, faster, running after her.  She eludes me so easily.

Running away from me, her wings gracefully tucked into her sides, her clawy feet scamper in tune with her mocking head.  I think she’s mocking me everytime she walks/runs away from me.  She finds a corner and I think I’ve got her, but as my hands make their way to grab her, she runs back from whence she came.

Any other person probably would’ve have grabbed her as she made her way past their legs, as she has so often done mine.  But I think I have a fear of actually catching chickens.  I can run through the motions of grabbing her, but in the ultimate moment, I cannot do it.

I think it might be related to my inability to flip roti or tortillas on the burner with my bare hands - but wait, no, thats a legitimate fear of hot things crisping my fingers.

So I don’t know why I can’t catch Clementina.  After a hurried search, JP or Jorge usually grabs Clementina within minutes, even seconds.  I usually settle with having them hand me the chicken, swallowing my pride with the knowledge that another day has gone by without an honest chicken catch.

Posted by Vivek on Friday, June 30th, 2006 at 12:21 am.