The art of stealing chickens: four is the magic number

The art of stealing chickens: four is the magic number

How many chickens fit in a sack before it starts thrashing around? The question, which sounds like a tavern joke, actually involves some technique. The original premise makes it clear: stealing chickens is a dying art that requires first studying the architectural barriers of the pen — the gate, the wire fence and that little door held by a simple latch. If you weigh 150 kilos, don't jump a two-metre fence. The magic number, they say, is four.

The technique: sack, latch and getting out of the pen

The first rule isn't the chicken, it's the getaway. You need to know whether the coop is inside an enclosed pen and work out how to get out of it with the birds. The sack is the classic method, though it has a well-known problem: it starts thrashing around, to the bewilderment of the chickens, who have no idea where they're going. Hence the magic number being four rather than six.

Some prefer a different system. Under the arm, without grabbing them by the legs. The reason is practical: some chickens are fond of their pen and try to peck. Others, however, accept their fate with a disconcerting calm, knowing that sooner or later they'll end up in the stockpot.

The coop as a fortress and the owner's cudgel

The defence of the pen has its own literature. One owner warns that he keeps a good cudgel by his door to teach a lesson to anyone daring to steal his chickens. Another simply demands their return within 24 hours. The verbal escalation is proportional to the bird's sentimental and economic value.

There are also those who boast of a modern method: park the vehicle in front of the pen, open the little door and let the chickens walk out on their own and climb in at the back. The catch, they admit, is that the vehicle in question is a tractor. The logistics of theft blend effortlessly with rural humour.

The twist: nobody had stolen anything

Halfway through the conversation, the author of the original premise confesses: his experience with chickens is limited to some his father kept and which, he suspects, were wiped out by a lynx. He has never stolen a chicken in his life. He wrote about the subject because he felt like it. People's reaction was to treat the text as an instruction manual.

The thread then drifts into less poultry-related territory: harsh childhoods, Francoism as backwardness, Nancy as collective madness, and a recommendation to take medication that meets with a dismissive reply. The chicken was the excuse; the substance was something else.

In the end, the only real theft anecdote comes from a third party: in his village, someone was caught holding a chicken, but they couldn't have been stealing it, because their trousers were down. The conclusion, with dry irony: the art of stealing chickens may fall into disuse, but the art of putting on a show around a chicken never will.