He flew at my head and clawed at my eye. Blood seeped out the left side of the nose, cheek and the right ear, where the rooster attacked, getting in one last “lick” at me.
I had knelt to the floor of the chicken coop, a converted shed we built for him and three hens. An additional eight chickens — four hens and four roosters, now almost grown — shared the wooden facility. I had just gotten a grip on a smaller rooster on the floor when Sombitch Rooster flew from a perch near a window above me, and straight for my head.
I let go the bird in my hands and yelled for help from my son, standing behind me. I raised my hands but the rooster was gone, either removed by my son or withdrawn by the rooster’s own accord after taking his best shot at me.
He knew what he was doing. He had done this before. (See Fowl-locked-up.) For nearly two months, I wore a black eye patch, having suffered a torn retina, and then later, a cataract. The rooster saw my “blind” side and struck at the most strategic moment. No, I am not anthropomorphizing. He was a slick, crafty Sombitch, one I grew to admire despite his sneak attacks.
Reminded me of the Asian fellow that Peter Sellers had retained in the movies with the Pink Panther. Chief Inspector Clouseau would walk into his apartment and before turning on a light, get assaulted by some crazy Kung-Fu fighting guy who appeared first as a stranger, but in the show’s “reality,” was his butler or all-around handy-man trained specifically to keep the French detective on his toes with surprise attacks.
Sombitch Rooster usually attacked my legs, but once punctured a heavy plastic gallon water jug that I held at my chest for protection. I kicked him just two days ago when he attacked while my back was turned.
I was getting bird feed for him and wild birds in the yard. The kick sent him sailing up and backwards as he did a somersault, landing miraculously on both scrawny, but powerful legs.
I refused to wash it. Wanted my son who still viewed the rooster as a pet, to see how vicious this mean and nasty farm animal had become. Why, I don’t know. But now, he’s gone. Got rid of him. (See Speaking-truth-ain’t-easy.)
Actually started to feel sorry for him last night as I thought of his “relationship” with the two hens he’s “known” the past year. He’s protected them from hawks on at least one occasion. At times, I even saw myself — perhaps, many guys like me — who strut unafraid into areas where angels dare not tread. Like a stupid cocky male, who should know better, but still pushes forward anyway.
Good bye, my fowl opponent. I should hold my wounds against you. But, I wish you well in the new world I removed you to.