I’ve been attacked two times now by our rooster. The first time it happened, I could tell that he was acting strange and aggressive, but I went about my business of collecting the eggs. When I came out of the coop, he dodged me with his wings spread. I was startled, but I still felt like I was the tougher one, so I shouted at him. This only made him more aggressive and he pounced on me, digging through my pants with his claws. I don’t even know how I made it out alive. Of course, my husband laughed and said it must somehow be my fault. The rooster must smell my fear or some malarkey like that. I wasn’t buying it. Determined not to let that big bird intimidate me, I went back out a few days later. I had a bowl heaping with delicious veggie scraps. Surely, I would win him over with these treats. Not so much. I barely got the scraps on the ground and he was after me. In my girlie-girlie way, I panicked. The bowl went flying up in the air and came crashing down, as if in slow motion. My favorite Williams-Sonoma bowl was destroyed. (Don’t ask me why I used the bowl for them in the first place.) I went clamoring back to the house, expletives spewing from my mouth. Now I had to get back in there and clean the broken glass. I dressed for war. I darned my ski pants and gloves, put on the thickest coat and found a tennis racket. He knew I was ready for battle, because as I neared the coop, expletives still spewing, he quickly gathered all his girls and ran inside. Chicken! I shut the coop door and cleaned up the glass. Again, my husband said I need to be more assertive, show the rooster that I’m the boss. And here is the best part of the story: a few days had passed and my husband was off to do the chicken chores, when suddenly I hear him screaming, expletives spewing from his mouth. He comes clamoring into the house, saying he was going to kill the bloody rooster and proceeded to show me the scratch on his leg. I calmly said, “He must have smelled your fear.” Mr. Rooster is still alive. I haven’t been back in the coop, and my husband did some little crazy man dance to show the rooster he’s…well, crazier. So far it seems to be working.
Monday, March 1, 2010
chicken report {no. 6}
I’ve been attacked two times now by our rooster. The first time it happened, I could tell that he was acting strange and aggressive, but I went about my business of collecting the eggs. When I came out of the coop, he dodged me with his wings spread. I was startled, but I still felt like I was the tougher one, so I shouted at him. This only made him more aggressive and he pounced on me, digging through my pants with his claws. I don’t even know how I made it out alive. Of course, my husband laughed and said it must somehow be my fault. The rooster must smell my fear or some malarkey like that. I wasn’t buying it. Determined not to let that big bird intimidate me, I went back out a few days later. I had a bowl heaping with delicious veggie scraps. Surely, I would win him over with these treats. Not so much. I barely got the scraps on the ground and he was after me. In my girlie-girlie way, I panicked. The bowl went flying up in the air and came crashing down, as if in slow motion. My favorite Williams-Sonoma bowl was destroyed. (Don’t ask me why I used the bowl for them in the first place.) I went clamoring back to the house, expletives spewing from my mouth. Now I had to get back in there and clean the broken glass. I dressed for war. I darned my ski pants and gloves, put on the thickest coat and found a tennis racket. He knew I was ready for battle, because as I neared the coop, expletives still spewing, he quickly gathered all his girls and ran inside. Chicken! I shut the coop door and cleaned up the glass. Again, my husband said I need to be more assertive, show the rooster that I’m the boss. And here is the best part of the story: a few days had passed and my husband was off to do the chicken chores, when suddenly I hear him screaming, expletives spewing from his mouth. He comes clamoring into the house, saying he was going to kill the bloody rooster and proceeded to show me the scratch on his leg. I calmly said, “He must have smelled your fear.” Mr. Rooster is still alive. I haven’t been back in the coop, and my husband did some little crazy man dance to show the rooster he’s…well, crazier. So far it seems to be working.
