Chicken Dance

We have 20 laying hens and one obnoxiously mean rooster. As the youngest in the family, I get the easier jobs to do. One is gathering eggs in the morning. The hens don’t care if I take their eggs. Oh they’ll squawk and prance around but don’t ever peck at me. Not so with the rooster who I’ve nicknamed Red cause he’s got this big old ugly glob of red skin that hangs down and shakes when he crows. It’s gross. He waits til I’m bent over and then flies up on my back and pecks the dickens out of me. It doesn’t usually hurt a whole lot, but it scares me something awful. Once in a while he’ll get me just right and draw a little blood. I hate him.

Soon as Red hears me come into the barn, he starts cackling. I don’t even know how he hears me. Chickens don’t have ears, do they? But Red knows. He knows I’m coming for them eggs, and he’s got to protect his hens. By the time I get to the pen he is all wound up, feathers angrily puffed up and he's rocking back and forth from one leg to the other in a crazy angry chicken dance.

I open the latch and step inside. Red squawks louder. Gotta lock the door behind me or the hens will get out. That means I’m locked in with him. Ugh! I walk towards the nesting boxes that still has one hen sittin’ there laying. I’ve got my basket that’s big enough to hold a couple dozen eggs. I take short, cautious steps towards the boxes and gather the eggs at the top layer. I start at the top cause I don’t have to bend over on account of being so short. I glance at Red still dancing in the corner glaring my way. I move down to the middle row and stick my hand under the hen that’s in there. She gives me a look like, “What do you think you’re doing,” and squawks at me too. Red doesn’t like that at all and charges at me. I stand straight up and yell boldly, “SHOO!” He jumps back, gives me a loud squawk and resumes his two-step. I continue down the middle row until all the eggs are in my basket.

Now the scary part where I have to bend all the way over to grab the bottom row eggs. I think about the conversation I had with dad this morning at breakfast. “Andee, you are 20 times bigger than that old rooster. Just show him who’s boss and give him a swift kick.” “Dad, I’ve tried. I stomp and yell at him, but he still gets me.” Dad shakes his head and laughs under his breath with that crooked grin of his. I try to plead with him to come with me using my saddest little kid eyes, but it doesn’t work. “You can do it honey,” he reassures me.

I don't believe him.

I set the basket down between me and Red trying to create a barrier. I reach in to get the last of the eggs and sure enough, Red lunges at me flying up on my back. I launch up and turn round and round in a circle trying to whip him off. He’s pecking at my back and I can feel his claws dig into my skin. I scream and try to get at him by slapping my back, but it doesn’t work. I run for the door and Red magically jumps off me. I guess he's done his job if I get the heck out of his pen.

I get on the other side and realize I’ve left my basket of eggs inside. Geez! I look around for something to take in with me this time. I find a pitchfork, which is practically twice my size, but I’m not going back in there without some kind of weapon.

I open the gate again and leave it slightly open so I can make a quick getaway. Red starts his chicken dance again and puffs up his feathers so I know I’m in his territory. I inch my way over to my basket. It’s only ten feet away, but it feels like a mile. I bend over ever so slightly and pick up the basket all the while balancing the pitchfork awkwardly in my other hand. I shuffle, shuffle, shuffle, back to the gate, throw the pitchfork at Red and scramble out of the pen slamming the door shut. I lock it and take several deep breaths. I look at Red and stick my tongue out at him. You won again today, but tomorrow Red, tomorrow ... you just might be soup.