As in Laura Ingalls Wilder. {Thanks, sis.}
As mentioned before, we now have a dozen chickens. More specifically, 11 hens and a rooster. His name is Rufus. I’m not sure why.
Up until this point, he has just been acting like one of the hens. Kind of a sissy. A sissy with a ginormous sharp beak and talons and spurs on his spindly little legs. But I digress.
So yesterday afternoon I went outside to gather the eggs and check the feed/water status of the chicken coop. Even though they are free-range during the day, they act like they haven’t eaten in 7 years when I fill the feed thingy. {I’m sure Laura would have known the correct term to use here, but we’ll go with thingy.} It makes me think maybe they really are super hungry even though they have 22 acres of bugs and plants to eat. So I continue to give them a full scoop of feed every afternoon. Maybe instead of Laura, you should call me a sucker.
So back to the story. I went outside to gather the eggs. Did I mention I am wearing a tank top and running shorts {appropriately mismatched} from my run earlier that day? And garden crocs. So not only am I one sexy lady as I’m gathering the eggs, but my legs are terrifyingly exposed and I’m not wearing getaway shoes. This comes in to play in the next part of the story.
I tossed the chickens some “chicken scratch” {I still don’t really know how that is different from feed, but it is} and they were all happily munching on it. I calmly walked by the gaggle of chickens {or is that just for geese?}, innocently swinging my bag of eggs on the way back to the house.
And then it happened. Rufus the rooster must have not liked the way I was walking or my garden crocs or he just had a surge of testosterone {do roosters have that?}…I’m not sure, but he started trotting at me.
So I yelled Hey at him and shooed him with my hand. The docile creature that he once was would have shied away and I would have been left alone.
But not this time. This time, I saw those beady little eyes narrow in a how-dare-you-shoo-me way and he all out charged me. Wings flapping and spurs coming at me and muscles bulging.
So I did what any sane person would do. I executed a plan of tactical evasion, discharged my weapon, and engaged in verbal assault. Which really means that I started running backwards, swinging my bag of eggs at him. And yelling. Loudly. Actually kind of roaring.
Then he stopped. And the look in his eye was one of pity. So I think he gave up his attack because he felt sorry for me. I don’t think he’d ever seen a human stoop to that type of maniacal behavior.
So there are several lessons to this story. One, never trust a rooster, no matter how sissy he seems. And two, if you act certifiably insane, you can scare lots of things off. {That last one might be a given. But you should keep it in mind all the same.}
Now I’m off to gather the eggs. With full body gear and a BB gun.









