When I was little, we lived on a farm between Wakefield, that was next to Milford Lake, and the tiny town of Upland, Kansas. I still remember the three barns, the chicken coop, and even the old red outhouse on the west side of the house. There were also the farm animals, like the cattle and the chickens. That’s what this story is about: a deranged, angry 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 didn’t like the chickens. I felt uneasy around them. Okay, okay, I was chicken of chickens, they scared the heck out of me. 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 sign of him. I nervously walked toward the chicken coop, where a large flock had gathered. They all seemed to be looking at me, just daring me to come closer.

Then, the flock began to part right down the middle, forming a V-shape with an evil-looking rooster at the tip, staring directly at me. I stopped walking, and fear bolted through my body.

The rooster charged toward me, picking up speed with every step. I was petrified, unable to move my legs to run. He pounced on my shoulder with his wings flapping as he viciously pecked away at my face. I stood there in utter shock and fear, taking a beating from a stupid, enraged bird. 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, picked up a large stick for a weapon, and sprinted toward me, preparing to beat the crazed bird off me. The rooster pecked and scratched my face until the very last second before my mom rescued me. Then, the feathered devil jumped off and disappeared into 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 heave. ❦