When the Pecking Order Got Personal

My grandmother's yard was a peaceful place filled with flowers, fresh biscuits, and the unrelenting threat of a rooster who had a personal vendetta against me.

I'm not clear on why it started or why I was specifically his target, but that was the conundrum and brand of warfare we found ourselves entangled in.

Every time I walked anywhere on the property, that bird would puff up like he'd just bench-pressed a hay bale and make a beeline straight for me. It wasn't a chicken; that rascal was a feathered missile of hate. They say roosters are protectors, but this one wasn't protecting the flock. He was protecting his reputation as the meanest bird in three counties.

Believe me when I say this wasn't just any rooster. He was a barnyard tyrant with the soul of Pol Pot and the wingspan of a small plane. If roosters had resumes, his would say, Professional menace, 5+ years experience.

Watching him strut around on his guard duty made you want to break something. That rooster didn't just walk; he strutted like Elvis in a sequined jumpsuit. He had more confidence than a used car salesman on payday.

While it is entirely in the realm of possibility that he heard me playing Alice In Chains on my car stereo, and this gave him flashbacks that set him off, I just know he magically appeared anywhere my ankles had a chance of being exposed.

When it started, he would dive-bomb me, and I would gently redirect him with my foot. It appeared to work for a while. Soon, he got the nerve and began to come back in waves. Each time, I would send him on his way again, which led to assault after assault.

He finally got that beak into me, and once I'd been adequately gifted a hard peck to the leg, I had to return the favor. I'm not proud of what I did next, but I shared with him the gift of flight to a degree that the Department of the Navy sent a recruiter to determine if he could handle an F-22.

I'd peek out the door like a fugitive planning a jailbreak. If the coast was clear, I'd make a run for it, but somehow that bird always knew. He had a sixth sense for cowardice. I started carrying a stick for protection, but it turns out that roosters are like bullies; they can smell fear and poor aim. I'm convinced he moonlighted as a bouncer at the local chicken coop nightclub.

"He's just doing his job," my grandmother would say as I nursed another peck wound. He was taking these new experiences of flight a bit too seriously.

"Doing his job? If his job is chasing me like I owe him money, he’s Employee of the Month."

I'd tell her about the attacks, and she'd say, "Maybe you need to quit running." That's rich coming from someone who wasn't the target of his poultry rage. I told her he hated me, and she said, "He’s just misunderstood." Yeah, misunderstood as a linebacker.

She acted like he was her little feathered angel, but I knew better. He was the devil in a chicken suit. To her, he was a proud protector of her yard. To me, he was a terrorist with feathers.

This madness went on for another month and a half. I was out of things to do, but I couldn't make him into a chicken dinner.

We were simply going to have to find a way to coexist.

One morning, I stepped outside, ready for another day of dodging, only to find him lying there, still as a church mouse at a Baptist sermon. He was as dead as my hopes of ever walking through the yard without fear.

No one knew what happened. Grandma said it was natural causes. I wasn't convinced. He'd never done anything natural in his life. It was like a barnyard murder mystery, except the suspects all had alibis, and I wasn't about to question the cows.

I half expected CSI: Barnyard to show up and dust for chicken prints.

I should've felt relieved, but instead, I felt...odd. Like a war hero who didn't know what to do when the fighting stopped. Without him, the yard felt quieter...and a lot less like a scene from a horror movie.

My grandmother clucked over him like he was a fallen soldier. I half expected her to sew a tiny medal of honor for his feathers. "He was a good rooster," she said. I didn't have the heart to tell her he wasn't even a good neighbor. Granny mourned him like he was a family member. Me? I was just glad to retire my running shoes.

"Why'd you pizon that rooster?" My cousins asked me.

"Now, why in the hell would I do that?" I questioned, "I hate that damned bird. I wouldn't poison him, I'd slow roast him in a crock pot for revenge. I didn't do anything to him."

Looking back, I realize that rooster taught me a lot. He mostly trained me on how to sprint while screaming, but still, lessons are lessons. No matter what you do or where you go, you'll meet your share of bullies, and sometimes you just have to face them, even if they're covered in feathers and have a bad attitude.

As it turns out, life is full of roosters, people who make you run, squawk, and sometimes laugh about it later.

I also learned that some mysteries are best left unsolved. Let's just say that rooster's demise wasn't exactly on my prayer list. But then again, neither was his survival.

That angry old bird would have made some delicious chicken and dumplings, but I guess we'll never find out, will we? Years later, I still think about that rooster, mainly when I'm ordering fried chicken. But in his own cranky way, he left a mark. Sometimes, it's the most annoying things in life that teach us the most.

Rest in peace, feathered foe. Wherever you are, I hope the angels know to keep their running shoes on.