But Tristan, do you not already own 5 chickens a voice in my head announced? Well strange voice in my head, I owned 3 chickens which I (you) ate, and now I am (we are) left with 2 hens who are cranking out lots of eggs. I figured it would be fun to buy three more poultry to gift to my host family and eat with my friends who are coming to visit in December.
The bus ride in was as uneventful as selecting the three chickens which were two females, one male and each were roughly the size of 6 piece McNugget boxes. Huey, Dewy, Louie (as I named them) and I then boarded the bus back to Baños. They were wedged humanely in a box which did not have air holes I until I poked them. The Ménage à trois box of chickens were quiet noisy on the bus and earned some warranted strange looks. This was not normal gringo behavior.
Weather Interjection: It had rained the past few days and now the sun was shining but the streets were still mud covered and tough to navigate on foot without incident. Can you see where this is going?
We departed the bus and began the short walk to my host family’s house. Not paying attention, which I am usually not, my foot found a great patch of slickness and I fell with a gracefulness that cannot be taught. Now mostly covered in mud I noticed one of the chickens staring at me, in front of me, not in the box. Of course the box had to break. I let out a pathetic sigh. Fuck.
I grabbed the little guy and quickly located another one scuttling to a nearby trash pile. With a chicken in each hand I spun around to see a scene no chicken owner wants to see. The chicken stood 10 feet away in a staring competition with none other than Old James. Old James, it had to be him.
He is the best of the worst street dogs in my barrio. Self appointed alpha dog of Baños this bastard fears nothing. I have seen him attack cars going full speed with the intention of winning. While he can usually be found drooling on some stoop, he occasionally ventures out to prove himself. Today was one of those occasions.
Before I could think of any solution other than throwing the chickens in my hands at him, the chase was on.
This next part is best told by fictitious outside observers.
Martha and Rosa, both indigenous women, explain the madness that they just saw.
Well, we were just sitting there on the porch shucking corn, probably discussing the weather or latest town gossip I don’t remember, when a baby chicken goes running by. Now there is nothing terribly unusual about that or the dog chasing it. But what came to pass next neither of us could have ever imagined. That weird gringo, you know the one who had that big ugly beard for awhile? Yeah him. Well he just came out of nowhere completely soaked in mud with a chicken in each hand yelling something in English. I think he was drunk or on the drugs or something. He was chasing that dog, which was chasing the chicken like a mad man. I swear I have never seen anything like it. Martha proclaims.
This is where Rosa would probably chime in with “some village in America is missing its idiot.”
And a good laugh would be had by all.
After jumping two fences I turn the corner of an old house only to see Old James sitting with a shit-eating grin standing over a pile of feathers. I could not help but laugh. I was mad at him but I released I was going to eat the chicken someday so why not laugh?
The surviving two needed new names. I would like to present to the world Mister and Misses Brunch.
I promise someday I will write a blog that has nothing to do with rugby or chickens.
