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The Time A Rooster Kicked My Ass

The sun rose over the Blue Ridge Mountains while the smell of frying sausage permeated our little yellow farmhouse. What started as a log cabin in 1844 had been transformed into a 3 BR house full of a crazy family of six. It was a funny farm, if you will. The smell of sausage in a skillet wakes me up every single time, and this morning was no different. I threw on a cutoff shirt from 4-H camp and some basketball shorts, hopped in my muck boots and headed out to the barn. 

I fed the horses first and gave them some love, then my sisters’ goats, and finally my dumbass sheep. Once I got done with all my chores in the barn, I grabbed a Costco coffee can of corn and headed out to the lot to feed our chickens. We had a lot of chickens. 

You see, my dad raised me to work hard and always find extra ways to make money. One of the Delph ways of making money was to flip animals. So when my dad found two dozen chickens for free in the Valley Trader (a Shenandoah Valley craigslist), he immediately dropped everything to go grab them. They were waiting for us in two giant blue feed sacks, and we just grabbed them and left immediately because they were free and we were in nowhere West Virginia. When we got home, we found a surprise. 
We now had 23 (one was dead) game chickens. Game chickens are smaller chickens where the colorful roosters are usually used for illegal cockfighting. We probably just came upon some stolen chickens, but I kept telling myself we were rescuing them. These chickens lived the life. They had free roam all over our land and access to the barn. The hens laid a ton of eggs and I sold them as organic free-range eggs for $6 a dozen to the elitist Northern Virginia scum that lived not too far away. Idiots. 

The cute little brown hens were awesome, but the roosters were another story. These fuckers were mean. The problem with having multiple game roosters was that these dickheads were always trying to fight each other. At any hour of any day, two of these assholes were out in the yard spurring and sparring. We always tried to break it up, but the fight I ran into on this specific summer morning was not a normal cockfight. 

Sometimes if you yell at them, they’ll stop. It wasn’t working. I walked over and tried to get in between them and break them up. Usually they would go after my feet for a second or two and I’d give them a little kick and they’d be gone. That didn’t work today either. 

This crazy motherfucker ran around my legs and jumped back on top of the rooster. He wouldn’t quit. It was like he was on bath salts. I looked on in horror while he attacked his amigo until his amigo was dead. I was in shock. After pecking the dead rooster for another 15 seconds, this monster twisted his head toward me and stared straight into my soul. I had a few options here:

  • Fight back. I remember watching one jump at my granddad and he grabbed it and snapped its neck in one swift motion. I didn’t exactly want to go this route. 
  • Try to de-escalate the situation, except chickens don’t speak English. 
  • Run, except I was a chunky 13-year-old in muck boots. 

I didn’t even get the time to make a decision, because the rooster came at me like lightning. I didn’t have time to run, because he leaped at me spurs up. Due to my wardrobe choice earlier, the majority of my body was exposed. I started running but I had no chance. He chased me down wings out screaming at the top of his poultry lungs. He leaped at me again, spurs out, and latched onto my back. Anyone inside the house could now see me sprinting and screaming across the yard with a rainbow-colored rooster attached to my back. He mauled me for a solid 30 seconds before another one of our roosters came to save the day. He walked up beside me and started yelling at the rooster on my back, as if it was a challenge. Then the psycho rooster began to attack my savior instead. They sparred for about 15 seconds and stopped and went on about their day. I was left confused and alone, for I had lost that battle. However, I always win the war. 

Later that evening, psycho rooster went home to be with Lord Foghorn Leghorn. Asshole. 

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kyhemplord
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kyhemplord

Takes me back to my childhood as well. I still hate roosters with everything in me.