This is not new thread stuff, this is the stuff of this thread's nightmares.... I remember my glee early on in this thread; reading the exploits of the brave-yet-dangerous Sir Al, as he courageously fought the ongoing battle with his vicious and half-mad rooster for the hearts and minds of his entire flock.... and laughing all the while, secure in the knowledge that I would never be put in such a position with my flockett of 3 egg hens. Not foo foo chickens, per se, but having been raised kindly and with probably more attention than a flock of, say 500. For the past near two years we've had a satisfying relationship, the girls and I; they providing me with eggs and I providing them with everything they need to provide me with eggs. All was well in the valley. I ruled over my chicken yard kindly yet firmly, not unlike I imagine Beekissed, striding confidently amongst my subjects. Imagine my surprise when, today, one of those ungrateful little ragamuffins (yes, they're moulting) gave my shoe a decided peck as I was changing out their water. Then again. And yet again, until she was pecking both my shoes like she meant it. Shocked, I yelled "Hey - knock it off!" or some such and fairly gently pushed her back with my foot. Like something out of the "Alien" franchise, she came at me with a vengeance. Meanwhile, the other two scrammed into the run after the half cabbage I desperately pitched in there in an effort to distract my attacker, apparently uninterested in participating or even watching the horrors to follow. Back and forth we went - her coming after my shoes and me attempting to chastise her into submission while using ever increasing force to shake her off and get her into the run - she increasingly agitated and me flinging horrible words at her along with my feet, frantically trying to recall the words and advice of this thread. By this time she had teeth grown wonderously long and sharp. I attempted to channel either Sir Al or Queen Bee as my breath came in ragged gasps, but they were both apparently out in their own chicken yards and unavailable for comment. Now engaged in my own desperate struggle to survive, I finally gave her a goodly boot into the run and slammed the door behind her, where she immediately went to the cabbage to get her share. Shaken (but not stirred), I retreated to the kitchen for a well earned and badly needed something in a glass. Bad karma? Kismet? A HEN, I ASK YOU??? Did I alter the course of history by my pure enjoyment of this thread lo these many days and my smugness of heart for thinking I would never end up a chicken battler? Is that valkyrie of a hen transforming into the rooster of my worst nightmares?? Chicken PMS compounded by moult??? As I walked away, I flung back over my shoulder, "...end up at Aunt Bee's - those girls'll use you for butt wipe..."
Ima get that girrrl tomorrow if she so much as looks sideways at me. She better come with an apology. Sniff.
