Brewster the Rooster seems to be suffering from a bit of testosterone poisoning. A few days ago he apparently decided that I am another (obviously competitive) rooster, and took a run at me. Since he’s always been something of scaredy-chicken, I had my back turned and was completely unsuspecting.
Let me tell you, a bird one-fifth your size with a beak and claws can so some damage. I’m still wincing when I stand on my left leg, which is where he buried his beak just above the back of my knee.
“That’s one,” I told him. “When we get to three, it’s chicken and dumplings time so watch it.”
Since then I enter the chicken yard with a broom; not so much to whack him (though in a direct attack I’m not above that tactic), but more to discourage him and disabuse him of the idea that I am a rooster. You’d think the 5’3″, opposable thumb stuff would be a hint, but I guess not.
The next day he was fine. The third day I had Bill with me when I went to collect eggs and change their water. Naturally Brewster lolled around with several chickens in a far corner, making me look a Chicken Little tattletale. Embarrassing, but harmless.
This morning was a different story entirely. Neck feathers flaring, claws forward and testosterone-driven, the Big R came at me over and over. It was quite interesting to see, and with the broom to distract him I wasn’t hurt.
But I can’t exactly get my morning chicken duties accomplished while I’m playing Dodge the Rooster with him.
It was clear that he hasn’t forgiven me for being an interloper, and as far as he’s concerned I’m still a rooster, opposable thumb and all. Fine.