Palmaresian Lunch

"We are going to catch it now," alerts my host mother. I put down my cracker and race into the house to fetch my camera.

Now rewind four weeks to my previous rural homestay in Piquatuba, hundreds of kilometers north in the heart of Amazonia. Sebastão, a man of few words, silently spreads corn kernels on the ground. As the golden specks of sustenance arc from his hand, chickens come running. Systematically placed at his feet, the sea of corn Sebastão stood in moments ago has transformed into a sea of chickens. Calmly and coolly, with the stealth of a jaguar, Sebass leans down, and with the swiftness of the aforementioned predator, snags a chicken. Fingers firmly grasping the chicken by both wings just behind the shoulders, a smile spreads across his face.

Time warp. Back to Palmares II, the MST assentamento where I spent three days last week. My family was: Maranata (mama); Ijaesse (son, 21); Alenice (daughter, 18); Anilson (son, 17); Ariel (son, 9), and Francisco (father). Upon my departure, Maranata gave me a small flag on which she wrote the names of all their family members. The name Francisco was
not present on this flag. This means one of two things: Francisco, in a devilishly sly ploy to make me look stupid without even knowing it, lied to me when we met, OR I am just stupid and called him Francisco my whole stay for no apparent reason.

Anyhow.

Camera in hand, I arrive back to the breakfast table, conveniently situated in the backyard. Barking. Yelling. Wings flapping. Father in the lead, club in hand, is followed by dog, and Anison and Ariel fanning out behind. The chicken takes refuge behind a planting box against the fence. Cornered, he is running out of options.
*click*
Hiding behind the flowerbox, the chicken waits for the hunters to make their move.
*click*
Hiding behind my camera, I think: "I wonder what that chicken is thinking."

Animal psychology is quite an elusive academic field. The science often takes many forms and is quite abstract. Even the greats Aleksandr Vondstein, Hamilton Greinstead and Gertie Weingarten could never tell you exactly what an animal was thinking. But, my friends, at this moment in time I believe that I can, with great confidence, tell you exactly what that chicken was thinking:

"Shit."

In a supreme breach of the tirelessly practiced chicken-catching method, Roxy (for those of you who don't know, this is the ambiguous name for every dog whose actual name I don't know) unleashed a near lethal string of barks and, displaying his best William Wallace impression, charged.

Sensing its chance, the chicken dounded for the newly opened hole in the defense. Daddio stepped up to fill the hole, but was faked out of his pants by the juke the chicken managed to pull off. Running with everything he had, feet pounding, wings spread, *click* mind focused, Lunch ran for cover behind the oven against the opposite fence. This time Team Go closed in fast and hard. Francisco emerged from behind the over, chicken in hand, grin slapped on his face. Mom walks over, knife in hand.

*click*

Head hanging on by a single tendon. Wings flap slower yet. Lunch is on its way.

Andrew

In case you are wondering, it was delicious.