Kid Attacked by Chicken (or I Feel His Pain)
It’s a rainy Saturday and I’m occupying myself by watching videos of people getting chased by chickens on Youtube. Don’t ask me how it came to this. I wanted to check my e-mail and that started me on the path that eventually led me to watch chickens extracting revenge on the human race. God bless the internet.
I mention this because I was once chased down by a chicken. Chickens are not nice creatures, especially roosters. They have no sense of humor at all. When I was four, I was at my grandma’s house out in the pasture (I guess my grandparents had put me out there to graze or something). I was watching the neighbor’s rooster who was standing atop a fence post doing his “cock-a-doodle-do” thing, and doing it quite proudly. I decided to imitate him and so flapped my arms in a chicken-like fashion and belted out, “cock-a-doodle-do!” The rooster immediately snapped his head in my direction. Pure hatred was in his eyes as he jumped off his perch and flew in my direction. I didn’t think roosters could fly. That’s how angry this rooster was, he flew even though he shouldn’t be able to. I quickly turned and began running toward the house. I didn’t get very far, as the rooster landed on my shoulders knocking me face down in the pasture. He stood on my back and pecked mercilessly at the back of my head. I thought farms were supposed to be peaceful places.
My grandma heard my muffled wails and looked out the back window to see my arms and legs flailing with what appeared to be an animated feather duster sprouting from the back of my head. She came to my rescue, bearing a broom, and chased the rooster off. As tough as that rooster was, he was no match for grandma. I was relatively unharmed. I have a small spot on the back of my head that doesn’t grow hair. That may or may not be the result of the chicken attack (I like to think it is). The psychological scars are much deeper. I get edgy around farms and I give chickens, and pretty much all fowl, a wide berth whenever I encounter them. It’s kind of like farmtime post-tramatic stress disorder.
I like to think that I’m good with animals, but that’s a lie. I’m really no better with animal than anyone else and I’m probably a little worse. I’m allergic to about half the animal kingdom. I’ve been attacked by lots of things. Dogs came after me mercilessly when I paperboy, I can’t ride a horse to save my life. About the closest I get to any sort of animal connection is dating a girl named Kat. Go figure. Still, some day I would like to get a cat or a dog (preferably a cat and a dog) when housing size becomes adequate. I’d still like to try and become one of those animal people. I don’t think I’ll ever forgive the rooster race though. It’s only been twenty-nine years since that fateful attack that left me horribly scarred.