Nea Fane – Un Biet Român Pripășit în America / A Hapless Romanian Stuck in The US

Last evening, as I returned from my errands, I stumbled upon a full-blown commotion on my street. Two rugged men, armed with brooms and wearing work gloves, were in hot pursuit of a white chicken. It was dusk, the worst time for a chicken, since they don’t see well in low light, and the poor bird was in a total panic, zigzagging through the street, giving the men a run for their money.

I pulled my car into the garage, and my wife appeared at the door. “Do we get involved or not?” she asked.

“Sure,” I said, anything to get my mind of things. So off we went.

I headed straight for a house I knew kept chickens. “Hello,” I called out. “Are you missing a chicken?”

“No,” they replied. “We have all ours. But there’s another house with chickens down the street.”

“Got it. Thanks.”

Meanwhile, my wife was kneeling behind a Toyota FJ, deep in conversation with the elusive chicken.

We took our turn at the capture, darting and dodging for a solid five minutes before the Toyota’s owner stepped out. “Hello, neighbor,” he greeted me.

“Hello, neighbor.”

“Oh, I know that chick,” he said, nodding toward the fluffy fugitive. “It’s from that house over there. Always gets out. Usually ends up in my backyard. This is a first, though – on the street.”

He disappeared into his house and returned moments later with a massive vacuum cleaner box. Then, to our surprise, he started hurling it at the chicken.

Now, I’ve seen some questionable chicken-catching tactics, but this? This was new. And wildly ineffective. The poor bird, already panicked, found a new gear. If it had been fast before, it was NASCAR fast now. It darted under a parked car, seeking shelter from the well-meaning chaos.

That’s when my wife, tired of the fruitless chase, decided enough was enough. Without hesitation, barehanded and short-sleeved, she dropped to the ground and slid under the car. Moments later, she emerged triumphant, the chicken cradled in her arms.

The Toyota neighbor stood there, stunned, still holding his empty vacuum cleaner box.

As he watched, my wife planted a gentle kiss on the chicken’s head and stroked its feathers. The bird, in turn, melted into her touch, finally calm.

“This chicken hasn’t eaten,” she announced, after a quick check-up. “It shouldn’t be like this before bed. We’ll take her for the night.”

The neighbor, clearly disappointed, looked down at his useless box.

Borderline hoarders that we are, we happen to own three massive dog crates. For two dogs. “See?” my wife said. “When you listen to me and keep everything, now we can use the spare.”

At first, we set up the cage in the backyard, covered with a bedsheet for comfort and privacy. Big mistake. Baloo went absolutely ballistic, barking loud enough to wake every living creature within a three-block radius. Meanwhile, Gicu, quietly pondering the unfolding drama from a safe distance, seemed to be debating whether he’d need puppy work gloves to approach this strange new creature or if bare paws would suffice.

So, still encased in the bedsheet, the cage was transported to the front entrance.

By morning, the food and some water were gone, and the chicken seemed a bit more settled. We gave it some salad and cabbage, and re-started the search for its rightful owners.

Update number one: we have an egg. Dear girl!

Update number one point five: after only one night with us, she ate everything, drank a lot, and started reading the newspaper. One more night and she would’ve applied for asylum.

Update number two: at 3:55 pm, an old Chinese gentleman, who didn’t speak one iota of English, came to retrieve the chicken. He was thankful and totally amazed at the makeshift coop we had made.