Thursday, July 6

Chickens.

They’re wily creatures.

They like to wait until you least expect it and ambush you while you’re down. I admit it. I used a few Rhode Island Reds to vent my frustrations a couple weeks ago. What can I say? Those damn birds are all over the place on this farm. Squawking. Scratching. Strutting their stuff like their eggs and drumsticks are THE eggs and drumsticks.

Writers are known for having bouts of the blues. We’re temperamental creatures. Chickens, on the other hand, are demonic fiends covered in feathers that like to flog and peck you.

Especially when they get in my way while I’m throwing a temper tantrum. They make great footballs.

“Get out of my way you grub-scratching pecker head!” I screamed as I exited the back door and tried to step off the porch.

Two hens and a rooster stared up at me with their black, beady eyes. I tried to step around them and got one of the hens tangled in my flip-flops.

Nearly falling, I shouted, “Okay, you feather covered butt holes. You asked for it!” I counted to three, drew back my foot and yelled, “PUNT!”

SQUAWK!

My flip-flop soared through the air behind the hen.

Actually, if truth be told, that first hen looked sort of cool flying through the air. She landed on the tool shed roof and bounced, wings flapping, stray feathers floating on the breeze.

“PUNT!”

The second hen bounced into one of my flowerbeds where despite the fence around it, the hens still scratch for bugs and grubs. I thought it poetic justice.

The cock, however, did not.

He stared at me. I stared back.

He stretched his neck and walked his cocka-doodle walk, clucking as if saying, “Just try it with me, bitch.”

And...Zinnia thought better of it—for the moment.

I skirted the cock (and lemme tell ya, he’s a big one!) and strode across the yard to get the water hose. I kept the rooster in my peripheral vision, noting how he kept strutting across the base of the porch steps, as if taunting me. I, however, kept imagining him on a serving platter surrounded with baked taters and carrots.

Finished with watering my marigolds and petunias, I rolled up the hose and strode around the house to get the mail. Glancing over my shoulder I saw the feathery pecker head peeking around the corner of the house at me! Minutes later, I sat down on the back patio, watching the rooster with one eye, the other scanning the price of chicken (heh, heh) at Kroger’s.

Standing, I tucked the newspaper under one arm, walked to the porch and tried to sidestep the cock. He shot between my legs (snort! Sorry, couldn’t help myself!), tripping me. I stubbed my toe on a flagstone.

Now folks, stubbing one’s toe may not seem like much, but when one has a low tolerance for pain and pissed off to boot, it’s not a good or pretty combination. I jumped up and down, howling about my toe. I wanted to cry. No! Wait! I wanted to wring that cock’s neck! (Oh, stop it! Stop it! I can hear you! You’re not fooling me. Now wipe that coffee off the monitor!) Better yet, I wanted to pluck him bald, buff his bottom with butter and stuff the biggest box of Stove Top up his ass that I could find!

Now, insert the theme music to Saturday Night Fever into the scene and you can get a clear picture of my stubbed toe dance antics. In my fury, I grabbed that rooster (or roaster, depending you how you look at it.) and drop-kicked him into the maple tree out front.

That’s how he got his pecker stuck. (No, not THAT pecker. I told you that already!) It took him three days to get his pecker out of that knothole. (Would you stop it already? Sheesh, some people’s minds are always in the gutter...) The hens are on strike, and the cock’s on the run.

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