I spent my early childhood on a small farm between Wakefield and the tiny town of Upland, Kansas. Several outbuildings sat across the dirt road from our two-story house. I can still picture the three barns: the largest was made of a red, glossy cinder block, while the other two were made of traditional wood. There was also the chicken coop, and even the old red outhouse on the west side of the house. And of course, there were the farm animals, like the cattle and the chickens. Ah yes, those odd two-legged creatures, the chickens, such fond memories. That’s what this high drama story is all about: a deranged fowl. To be exact, it was an old, crazy, foul rooster.
It all started one morning when Mom sent me outside to fetch my older brother for lunch. I was three years old, and for reasons unknown, I felt uneasy around the chickens; something about them frightened me. I guess you could say I was chicken of the chickens! I wasn’t very big for my age, and those noisy, ugly, feathered poop machines were still pretty good-sized compared to me.
I hollered for my brother, “Don! Don! Mom wants you to come in to eat!” But there was no answer or sign of him. I nervously worked my way toward the chicken coop, where a large flock had gathered. They all seemed to be looking at me like they were planning something sinister and daring me to come closer, those despectable creatures!
Just then, the flock began to part right down the middle, forming a V-shape, with me at the open end and a devilish-looking rooster at the tip, staring directly at me with his diabolical reddish-brown eyes. I instinctively stopped walking; my breathing intensified, my heart was pounding a hundred miles a minute as terror bolted through my little three-year-old body, paralyzing my short little legs.
The rooster, without hesitation, charged toward me, picking up speed with every step. I was beyond mortified! His wings were slightly extended, his head was lowered, and his neck was outstretched, aimed directly at his little terrified prey.
He pounced on my small shoulder, flapping his wings as he viciously pecked and scratched at my face with his spurs and claws. I stood there in utter shock and horror, taking a bloody beating from a psychotic bird with a brain the size of a bean. My arms instinctively began to wave frantically, trying to get him off.
Then Mom spotted the commotion through the kitchen window. She darted through the front screen door, stopped for a split second, grabbed a large stick for a weapon, and sprinted toward me, preparing to beat the daylights out of this crazed bird to get him off of me. The rooster pecked and scratched at my face until the very last second before my mom arrived and rescued me. The feathered devil jumped off just in the nick of time to get away because he was chicken.
Mom quickly carried me inside. I was in a state of shock, crying hysterically as she washed the blood and chicken poop off my face. She later told me that vicious bird might have taken my eyes if he'd had just a few more seconds of pecking. I still carry a very faint scar on my upper forehead from that deranged fowl.
Needless to say, the rooster’s time on earth was quickly coming to an abrupt end. It was my dad, with the help of an ax, who sent that vile rooster to chicken
heaven. ❦
Today,
I no longer find chickens vile,
only delicious!