Dark red scars are forming on my left hand and forearm where the thrust of the attack struck me. If left too long, I believe the cuts would fester and get worse. They’re the type that could cause that ugly yellow crust-like “deformity” to surround and create a horrific open wound.
The sonofabitch did this to me. Yeah, I just took his name in vain. The “Sumbitch” Rooster. Twice now he has “gone off” on me, and twice I felt he wanted to hurt me. Really hurt me. Like, in “deadly force” type hurt me. I think you call that part at the rear of a rooster’s claws “spurs.” Well, using those, as well as his deceivingly-looking “weak” legs, he attacked me drawing blood.
Why? Because he’s made that way, you say? To be protective of the two hens and what is appearing to be a chick turning into yet another rooster we have as pets? He pecks the hell out of them. They’re all afraid of him, and give way to him when he bullies his way to the feeding bowl or “scratches” for worms and other “nourishment” that might be found crawling on the ground of our backyard lawn.
Lawn? You ought to see it! It’s all brown and worn away where the “fowl” birds (was I redundant, well how about the “foul” birds, then?) have dug into the ground building spaces for “dirt baths” and “happy hunting grounds” for food found only in nature. They congregate beneath a large bushy tree that’s protected by a second bush covered with thorns. It’s an ideal hide-away from air-borne predators and possibly those found on the ground. I don’t know, like foxes or other natural-born chicken- affaciandos. Haven’t seen any of them around. Possum, yeah. A racoon, maybe. Skunk? Don’t remind me about the one that “sprayed” my old dog “Willie.” It took 22 baths of tomato juice and V-8 juice to get the little guy half-way acceptable, smell-wise, that is. Skunks gotta be good for some things, but not tangling with one’s favorite house-bound pooch.
Some say I read my human thoughts and feelings into animals, as if I could actually understand where they’re “coming from.” Anthropomorphizing, I think it’s called. But, I think I understand our “Sombitch.” (We change the spelling of the rooster’s name, depending on the gravity of his latest offense against humanity. “Sunbitch” is for when he is acting like a real “bastard.” “Sombitch” for when he’s more like one of our more lovable, clumsy but really stupid friends who has no reason to feel “cocky,” yet struts around as if he does.)
I had left the chickens out longer then the normal time I open their “trap door” to enter their chicken coop. It was cold. The rooster was “pissed.” He was angry, and lacked control and wanted to show his hurt as bluntly and as plainly as he knew how. Kinda like a child going through a temper tantrum. Only this “child” could cause real damage, and by the looks of my four cuts, he did.
The first time he went “berzerk” was when I had “forgotten” to let them into the chicken coop at night. I fell asleep. All migrated from the top of the hill near the coop to the bottom and climbed into a smaller bush closer to our house and protected more from the harsher winds that blow at the crest of the hill. None would let go of their perch. I hand-carried the chick and its mother-hen individually. Then after walking up and down the hill (great exercise, by the way), I returned and was able to get the rooster and the second hen bundled together in both arms. (We named the hens Hillary and Michelle. No politics involved, really. It was something my 17-year-old son and I came up with, I guess, because one is light and one is dark.)
The rooster attacked me when he got to the top of the hill, but did not “break skin” because of the jeans covering my left leg. Hurt like hell. I realized then that we named him well. Sombitch.
Proud protector, fearless fighter, stupid male.
Sound like any one we know, ladies?
Gotta luv ’em. Most of the time.