My fear and hatred of chickens began as far back as 1940 when I, a barefoot child of four, shared yard rights with the black hearted creatures. They watched me with their beady eyes. Nine hens against one small child. Unfair from the start. They came toward me, ambling along, stopping to pluck an occasional bug from the grass. Exchanging gutteral threats against me as they closed in. I understood hen cluck. I knew exactly what they were saying.
White hen, "Let's rush her."
Black Biddie, "You peck her left leg. I'll get the right."
Speckled Sally, "Wait! Doodle-Doo's coming. He'll want to be in on the fun."
Our prize Bantam rooster was, sure enough, making his way toward the scene. Spurs firmly in place and head held high, he knew the silly hens were watching, with their weak knees and faint hearts. His big wattle was quivering with every step, proving Doodle-Doo's male status in the barnyard. Keeping a respectful distance, five nervous leghorn's minced along behind him. Everyone was present and accounted for. Hen cluck moved up a notch in volume.
Black Biddie, "Let's see her run."
Leghorns in chorus, "Yes! Yes!"
Doodle-Doo, "Let's hear her scream."
Speckled Sally, "Let's make her wet her pants!"
cluckcluckcluckcluck, "all together now. Let's Go!"
Wings flapping wildly, they flew into action.
I ran, screamed and wet in accordance with their specifications.
Mission accomplished.
MelindaGerner@yahoo.com
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