CHAPTER 41:
BAD EGGS
In addition to the various barns and sheds dotting our decrepit estate, a flimsy, ancient chicken coop stood in the corner of the property like a threadbare wraith.
The “coop” was home to all manner of fowl from chickens of various breeds to turkeys to ducks and geese.
I will not lie, the living conditions inside the coop were abysmal. The outdoor area was completely covered, top to bottom in chicken wire. Mud covered the ground there for a full ten months out of the year. The various birds paced around inside like convicts, picking fights, raping each other, eating each others eggs and shitting inside the empty nests.
Inside the coop things were no better. A fine powder made from ancient chicken droppings, straw dust and bird dander coated the floor and a grey haze fogged the air like smoke. Here the surliest chickens would roost in nooks and crannies, leering out from the haze with the psychopathic hatred of hard lifers.
Upon entering the coop to feed the inmates one could expect to be shrieked at, lunged at and pecked at. Geese would chase you with their necks down and their mouths open hoping to give you such a pinch that you’d think twice about ever setting foot in their neck of the woods again.
Usually, being an animal lover, I would suffer these pecks and jabs without complaint pulling a Jesus and whispering “forgive them o’ lord for they know not what they do” or else chuckling happily and saying “good one pal!” while wiping the trickle of blood away from whatever open patch of skin I was foolish enough to leave exposed.
Of course patience is valuable only because it is finite and tolerance, while often mistaken for weakness, is in fact a brand of wiry strength that, when stretched past it’s range, tends to snap back with remarkable force. The kind of force that leaves welts.
On that note, there were two birds that not only tested the patience of my family and friends, but exceeded it as well. They were known, unaffectionately, as the “Shit-head Roosters.”
The Shit-head Roosters were identical to one another. They were short, maybe eight inches tall, had ridiculous red combs on top of their heads and long, wicked barbs on the backs of their feet. Their feathers were a sort of muted gold mixed with a dark, hateful blue. They were meaner than hell.
They were so mean that they had either been kicked out of the chicken coop by the other chickens (a feat comparable to getting kicked out of a maximum security prison for being too tough) or else left on their own because beating up other chickens was getting too easy and they wanted to stick it to the lanky monkeys outside.
One generally associates chickens with ground fowl, which is valid as they are usually spotted on the ground. Roosters, however are called roosters because they like to roost. In fact, most chickens are possessed of a limited flying ability and, by flapping like mad, can usually gain branches twenty or so feet off the ground.
The Shit-head roosters had therefore taken up roost in a tree right outside of Guthrie and Candace’s house which, in turn, was kitty-corner to the chicken coop. With the exception of late autumn, the tree was usually covered with a thick camouflage of leaves which made the Shit-head roosters all but impossible to see. Coming home from work after a long day, Guthrie or Candace would inevitably be exhausted and their minds would not be on self-defense but on bills to pay, chores to do or issues having risen at work.
The Shit-head Roosters’ standard method of attack was to wait until their prey was a little bit past the tree, maybe three feet or so, and then leap off their perch. Slowing their descent by flapping, they would then land on the back of the person’s neck and begin kicking like mad with their talons.
Usually they would do this one by one, tag-teaming a person by alternating attacks. Other times, when they were feeling particularly nasty, they would descend in unison and wreak a special type of synchronized hell.
Once engaged, the Shit-head roosters were surprisingly difficult to detach as their claws could clutch through the fabric of one’s shirt while their beaks did terrible work to the scalp and neck. Seeing a person flail under the attack of the Shit-head roosters was both humorous and terrifying. The victims would stumble back and forth screaming obscenities and clutching madly at the air, begging for somebody to get the damned things off.
If you were in earshot you would, of course, wish to oblige. The thing was, you would have to count how many roosters there were before you went in to help because if you only saw one, that meant that the other was sitting there, waiting in the tree for you to come closer so that it could jump down and kick you in the neck too.
The roosters never did any real damage. There were cuts that bled and torn shirts and scratches but nothing life threatening or disfiguring in any permanent way.
But it happened a lot.
It happened especially to Candace and Guthrie and, understandably, they grew tired of it. The roosters didn’t seem to understand that, when the gloves came off, they were really no match for an angry human being.
The only thing that kept Candace and Guthrie from retaliating in kind was their pervasive love and tolerance for all living things. They could have destroyed the roosters if they wanted to. They could have lit their tree on fire and waited on the ground with machetes and stew-pots. But they didn’t. They just suffered and bore it. For a time.
I wasn’t there for the actual breaking of the levee but I have heard it recounted enough times to feel like I was. It was night. It was winter and Guthrie had gone outside to fetch some wood for the fire. The tree was missing quite a few leaves by this time but it was dark enough that you couldn’t see anyway. Guthrie made it to the wood shed alright, loaded up a full bushel of wood and started back.
As he passed under the tree he heard a familiar flapping sound and one of the Shit-head roosters landed on the back of his neck and started kicking. Guthrie dropped the wood in surprise. It landed on his foot and hurt.
Cursing he scrambled with the rooster. He had just managed to dislodge the first rooster when the second landed on his neck. This one didn’t just kick; it leaned forward, muttered something ugly and bit his ear.
With the second rooster biting through his earlobe Guthrie turned around just in time to see the first rooster in mid-flight traveling back towards him, eyes down, beak open in rage. The angle was just right.
Guthrie pulled back his foot and kicked. The rooster sailed up into the night sky like a well kicked soccer ball –a good forty feet or so from what I understand- decided that he’d had enough and flapped his way over the house and was gone. I believe he was taken by eagles shortly after.
Perhaps the other shit-head rooster paused briefly to watch his twin disappear over the roof and into the wilds beyond. Perhaps it turned back to Guthrie with a look a redoubled fury, it’s eyes flashing the words “you killed my brother.” Perhaps Guthrie and the second rooster battled long into the night, like Beowulf and Grendel’s mother at the bottom of the lake. Or perhaps, after watching it’s evil twin disappear over the rooftop, the second Shit-head rooster let out a tortured crow of defeat and, detaching itself from Guthrie’s torn and bleeding neck, let itself fall to the ground where it remained for the rest of its days, a broken ex-villain.
Although I never actually got the full story as to how Guthrie’s battle with the second rooster concluded. I am guessing that the latter version is closer to the truth.
With it’s brother gone, the other Shit-head rooster became a shadow of it’s former self. It ran from people and other chickens, ate at night, slept fitfully during the day and spent most of its time roosting in that same tree, waiting, waiting for that familiar flap of wings on the wind and the days to come where he and his brother would once again swoop down from the branches of the great tree and kick the necks of passersby.
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