Chasing the Chicken

We came back to the farm and loaded the bales into the barn, and then Erika asked if I’d help her get a loose chicken. Poor thing, it’s only a month old, and it had scurried under the goat barn and was way off in a corner.

So I got down on my belly and slid under the goat barn. No spiders or rats, apparently, and I tried to ignore the dirty old goat terds or whatever it was I was crawling around in.

There was no space to do anything but bellycrawl, and of course the chicken kept nervously moving further and further into a corner. I was trying to leave it a clear shot at the biggest exit, but it wasn’t getting the hint. I shook sticks at it, talked to it: “hey chickie, not that way, just move away from the wall, oh no honey you’ve got it all wrong! not that way! make it easy on yourself!”

Just an hour before I’d been exchanging emails with an organization in DC about going to Tbilisi, Georgia to train journalists on election coverage. Important stuff: world politics, government grant money, freedom of speech, lofty ideals, a country on the brink of collapse. And now I was face down in goat terds, trying to convince a frightened adolescent chicken to move in a particular direction.

But at that moment I just wanted the damn chicken back where it belonged. It seemed as important as Parliamentary elections in a post-Communist country that most Americans think is a Southern state.

Chasing chickens, training journalists – what’s the difference, in the end?

In the end Erika loosened a board on the side of the barn where the chicken was and I chased it out through the hole.