My first few years of life were spent on a small farm between Wakefield and the tiny town of Upland, Kansas. Our farm had several outbuildings that were located directly across the dirt road from our house. I still remember the three barns: the largest was made of a type of red, glossy cinder block, whereas the other two were more typical and made of 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. And that’s what this story is about: a deranged fowl. To be exact, it was a
foul rooster.
My mom sent me outside to fetch my older brother for lunch. I was three years old, and I felt very uneasy around the chickens; there was something about them that frightened me. Okay, okay! I was chicken of chickens! I wasn’t very big for my age, and those noisy, ugly, feathered creatures 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 walked toward the chicken coop, where a large flock of them had gathered. It seemed as if they were all looking at me, just daring me to come closer.
Just then, the flock began to part right down the middle, forming a V-shape with a devilish-looking rooster at the tip, staring directly at me with his diabolical reddish-brown eyes. I instinctively stopped walking, and terror bolted through my little three-year-old body, paralyzing my short little legs.
The rooster charged toward me, picking up speed with every step. I was beyond mortified! His wings were flapping, his head was lowered, and his neck was outstretched, aimed directly at his terrified prey.
He pounced on my small shoulder, continuing to flap his wings as he viciously pecked away at my face. I stood there in utter shock and horror, taking a bloody beating from a psychotic bird with a brain the size of a peanut. My arms instinctively began to wave frantically, trying to get him off.
Mom spotted the commotion through the kitchen window. She darted through the front 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 my face until the very last second before my mom rescued me. The feathered devil jumped off, ran, and just like a chicken hid himself within the flock.
Mom quickly carried me inside. I was crying hysterically as she washed the blood and chicken poop off my face. She later told me it might have taken my eyes if that rooster had just a few more seconds of pecking. I still have a faint scar on my forehead from that deranged pecking 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!