Mr. Write's Page

Okay, I know — I live in a small, rural Southern town, and I can’t expect life here to be the same as in, say, Malibu or Brooklyn.

But really, chickens roaming loose is a bit much.

I got new neighbors a couple of months ago, and shortly after they moved in, I began to hear the crowing of a rooster at dawn.

I assume it crows daily, but I wouldn’t know; I get up with the chickens very rarely these days.

I don’t know how many chickens live next door, and frankly, I don’t care. Nor do I care if the neighbors raise chickens. The crowing and clucking sounds are pleasant enough, and the whole idea is rather amusing.

But yesterday, one of the birds paid me a visit. I was not amused.

Just before lunch, I grabbed my car keys, told Paco goodbye, and walked out the back door into the garage. I tapped the buttons and stood waiting for the garage doors to open.

As the doors went up, I did a double-take as two scrawny chicken feet, and slowly the rest of a chicken, came into view.

The bird stood unmoving and looked at me in that glassy-eyed way chickens have. I think I then addressed it — probably said something like, “What the –?”

It was clear what had happened. The chicken somehow got loose from its enclosure and wandered the 50 yards through the woods to my house.

Well, I was on my way to Athens, and I had no time for niceties. Advancing and waving, I shouted, “Get lost, chicken! Go home!”

The chicken clucked in alarm, flapped its wings, and, instead of fleeing away from the house, ran inside the garage.

I muttered a profanity and glanced up the hill toward my neighbor’s house. No cars were in the driveway. The chicken and I were on our own.

The chicken stood at the end of the car peering sideways at me. Being a normal American, I fished out my cell phone and took a picture.

With the formalities out of the way, I turned to the task of rousting the chicken from the garage so I could leave.

It was no easy task. First, I attempted a flanking maneuver. I went quietly to the front of the vehicle, so the chicken would run outward instead of inward, and with much stamping of feet, I charged.

Instead of exiting the garage, the chicken ran squawking under the car.

I muttered a profanity again and walked around to the passenger side of the car. I leaned down and looked under the vehicle. There was the chicken, cowering out of reach, squawking rhythmically in alarm. This was not turning out as I expected.

With no small amount of irritation building, I grabbed a broom and began probing beneath the car. I knew by the squawks when I located the chicken.

The bird retreated from under the car on the driver’s side and stumbled a few steps along the wall, vocalizing wildly. It finally stopped behind a stepladder.

So far, the chicken was winning. Having minimal experience with barnyard fowl, I wasn’t sure how best to gain the upper hand.

If I rushed it or used the broom, the bird probably would go back under the car. I decided to take advantage of my opposable thumbs — to grab it barehanded by its scrawny neck.

Up to that point, the chicken was alarmed, but no more than the average chicken.

However, when I reached down and attempted to catch it, the chicken came unhinged.

Until that moment, I had never heard a chicken in full-out panic mode. It was awful.

The squawking became a terrible, steady screeching. The chicken ran forward, reached the corner of the garage, and thrust its head against the wall. It stayed there, shaking and making guttural sounds.

Damn, I thought, this chicken is utterly terrified. Who knew chickens had the brains to be so afraid?

For a moment, I thought about driving away and leaving the garage door open. The chicken would collect its wits in time and go elsewhere.

It was a nice thought, but not a very smart one. Especially in these hard economic times, one shouldn’t drive away and leave one’s garage door open. By so doing, one could lose a lot of tools.

So that left me with a chicken problem. I didn’t want the poor thing to die of heart failure, but on the other hand, I wanted to go to Athens. For both of our sakes, I needed to act quickly.

So I did.

The chicken was standing defeated and defenseless in the corner of the garage. Using the business end of the broom, I pinned the bird to the floor. Then I reached forward and grabbed it, firmly but carefully, by the neck.

The chicken went bonkers, of course, flailing crazily and vocalizing like a mad fiend, but the battle was over.

In triumph, I walked out of the garage carrying the struggling bird. In a cloud of feathers, I released it onto the lawn.

As soon as I let it go, the chicken stopped squawking that terrible hellish screech and resumed an ordinary cluck. In a nanosecond, it disappeared to safety under the shrubbery.

Quickly, before birdbrain somehow blundered back inside the garage, I leapt into the car, backed out, and closed the garage doors. The chicken was still under the shrubbery when I drove away.

Chances are, I will never again in my life encounter a runaway chicken. But I know I’ll be peering into the shrubbery for weeks to come.

The fugitive fowl.