A humorous and dramatic account of the author's experience chasing a chicken and being outsmarted.

The author recounts their harrowing experience of trying to catch a chicken, describing the agility and unpredictability of the bird, and the physical toll it took on them.

Out Juked by a Chicken

**Note - Juked by a Chicken**

I swear, I almost had a stroke putting the chicken away today.

I have had way too little sleep, way too little to eat, and stretched myself out way too thin to function.

Almost twice in the past 48 hours, I nearly fainted from standing up too fast.

I remember feeling the onset of faintness, bracing myself against a wall or preparing to fall safely in case I couldn't control my landing.

So when I say I thought I almost died chasing this chicken, I mean it.

Chasing chickens is an art.

You have to juke the chickens.

They'll run circles around tables or go under things you can't go under.

They'll run under chairs or through bushes, under fences, between your legs. All you can do is limit their escape routes until you're close enough to gently grab them without hurting them.

It's a mindless game of chess.

Like chess, the first two moves decide the winner.

Like chess, the rules have no meaning.

Like chess, it can take you 30 seconds, or it could take you an hour.

But a chicken plays chess like a hedge fund manager plays the stock market: mindless gambles with zero calculation.

Their brains have the exact required caloric intake to function at any level.

They are min-max machines of stupidity and survival.

Yesterday, she made no fuss coming inside, but today I could tell it was going to be a struggle. We began with the customary dance of slowly strafing around each other, assessing the layout of the battlefield.

This was the cease-fire.

After a few laps around the patio table, I realized this was going to be difficult.

You grow slower as the hunt drags on. There was no time to waste.

I began to increase my pace, hone my agility, and juke the chicken.

I had juked her into a corner: between two plant cages and a reclining patio chair. I was straddling the chair, slowly moving my hands to guard the left and right exit opportunities she had.

To catch a chicken, you have to think like a chicken.

And the only way to think like a chicken is to not think at all.

I rendered my mind a blank slate, regressed to my most basal nature.

I approached carefully, mindful she could make the bolt at any second, and I wouldn't be able to counter because I was wrapping my arms and legs around this chair.

I'm closing in, and I get to the point where I know I'm in range.

She usually surrenders once she knows you're in range. I relax my guard. The hunt is complete.

But suddenly, I could sense she was not going to freeze.

In her eyes, I witnessed the very incarnation of the words fight or flight. I saw the gunpowder spark of the starter pistol itself.

The world came to slow motion. Space collapsed around us, and we became alone together, locked in this singular moment in time for eternities.

I could see her mind executing quantum-speed processing: solving the single-source shortest path exit, solving the traveling salesmen problem while she was at it.

I saw her navigate the maze of the bars of the patio chair, my arms, and the plant cages like she was Neo from the Matrix. It was like watching water flow through river rocks, like wind through trees.

She bolted underneath the patio chair and forced me to nearly about-face to try and meet her.

As soon as I lurched up, a sharp shock was sent to my nervous system. My vision blacked out for a moment. Those shapes and colors you see when you're rubbing your eyes too much appeared, those strange wavy patterns and avant-garde paintings that flash in your mind when you do. Then, I felt a sharpness, like needles punching through all the veins in my forearms and neck.

A pain so intense it made me contemplate the pain of death.

And that was my thought:

"This is the end."

"This is how I will die."

"Out juked by a chicken."