Chickens are wildly individual beings and don’t you dare be fooled for one second into thinking otherwise. When I was a pretty smallish child my parents allowed me, for some unknown reason (they were not responsible adults is probably the reason), to purchase with my own money two bantam chickens from a flea market. I had a little banty rooster named Rocky and a tiny banty hen named Ginger. It was a perfectly lovely arrangement even though I sucked at naming things. I loved those jerks with my whole heart and everyone thought that was adorable.
Now, my grandfather hired a neighborhood man to do a lot of odd jobs. This man was named Stanley and, though I can only think fondly of him, he was personally responsible for a hugely traumatic aspect of my childhood. One day, you see, Stanley arrived with a gift for me. “I hear you like chickens,” he said presenting my family with the most gorgeous animal I had ever seen. A beautiful orangey head fading into iridescent greeny-blue wings, long proud incredibly green tail feathers, red eyes that seemed to glow (soon I would learn this was from the Fires of Hell), and the proudest crown and wattle anyone had ever seen. This rooster was massive too, and not just to someone who is quite bitty, he was a lot of chicken. Now, naturally, I was elated. “Let ‘em out, let ‘em out!” I begged as soon as it seemed remotely appropriate to be a bother. My grandfather, ever indulgent, proceeded to do this. The first act of this new addition to my home, never a safe place but never so dangerous as it would soon become, was to almost murder my grandfather.
You see, what I did not know at the time was that roosters have something called ‘spurs’ which are effectively leg knives. If you are imagining that these cannot possibly be dangerous then I am going to change your imagination. My family, two young children included, gathered around. Soon my pretty new pet would be free to puk and bok about the yard I believed. My grandfather opened the transport cage and everything was, at once, a mass of feathers and blood. Unleashed the chicken lunged instantly for his face and neck. Fortunately he was able to throw up his arms in protection which resulted in a huge gash that must have been bone deep for how it bled. This being of raw malevolence rushed at the assembled crowd causing much screaming and cowardly running. If I am recalling correctly my mother actually scooped up my sister before she fled to the safety of the house. I don’t remember how, or even if, we corralled the devil. But I do know, precisely, my grandfather’s words as he calmly wrapped his bloodied arm in one of the handkerchiefs he was never without, “Mean little bastard, ain’t he?”
The coalesced mass of violence was named. He was called Bully and my entire family has war flashbacks when that profane name is mentioned. My father was Bully’s second victim, his spurs managing to slash through his jeans and cut open his leg nastily. After this event it was not decided that we had to get rid of this monster masquerading as a bird. It was decided, instead, that he was to be de-spurred. For the uninitiated this involves a terrified child holding a ball of raw evil while an adult twists that evil’s most deadly weapons off with a pair of pliers. I am told this process is painless but I regret that it did not inflict that demon with some amount of pain because as soon as I dropped him he hit me full in the chest with an untellable fury and I was crying when I made it to the safety of the house.
Thus began a series of years where outside was a PVP zone. My parents laughed when my sister and I rode bicycles because we were always perused by Bully running full tilt, intent on committing a violence against us. We had a hen house and chicken run built but nothing could fully contain this beast. For years a standard accompaniment to leaving the house was a broom handle. Why? Because there was a likelihood that you were going to be viciously assaulted by the unkindest animal as has ever walked this forsaken earth. Now, whacking a psychopathic rooster with a broom handle does not actually dissuade it from continuing its attack, but it does keep it a distance away from you that you might get to safety. Running was futile and foolish but we resorted to it often. Bully knew the exact time we got home from school. Every day without fail he was in the driveway, waiting. Broom handles became standard equipment in every vehicle. My father would amuse himself by sending his children out to fight the chicken and we would do it because my sister and I have always been desperate for approval. This is one of the rare instances where my mother didn’t even try to stop him. That unholy creature loved sneaking up on her when she was putting clothes on the line and any time a child was battling it was a happy time for her.
I must impress on you, I have no idea why we didn’t get rid of Bully because he terrorized us constantly. Everyone laughed that we were so tormented by a bird. Their laughter ceased the second they set foot on our property and met the hellion in person. Collecting eggs during those years was always met with tears as I trudged to my task and inevitable beating from a rooster. Once Bully got frostbite in his comb and my father carried him lovingly in his arms to get him treatment from the vet. This was a complicated relationship we had with our awful pet. Bully was also, for the record, a serial rapist who would pounce on hens with no warning and not a single one of them ever wanted it. I’ve had other roosters that are flawless gentlemen in this area and have cute courtship dances. Not Bully.
Anyway, one day a man showed up at our house for reasons I don’t recall. My parents were both artists and my dad is constantly into some nonsense or other so it could have been anything really. “Watch out for the-,” one of us began before being cut off by a delighted gasp. This was followed by the elated question, “Is that a fighting rooster?” We confirmed that it absolutely positively definitely was the most fighting anything on this or any other plane. “Oh wow,” the strange man continued with a dreamy smile, “I’ve always wanted one!” Anyway, we gave Bully to him with repeated warnings that this was a terrible mistake he was making. I never saw that man again and to this day I have a sneaking suspicion that Bully was somehow complicit in his undoubtedly bloody death.
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