Tuesday, January 10, 2006

Which Came First?

I eat a lot of chicken. This is not a mistake.

I hate chickens, all chickens - hens, roosters, maybe not so much the little fuzzy chicks – but I hate what they will eventually become. I do have a good reason. It’s not like I’m coming right out and just hating them for hate’s sake.

You see, my brother used to lock me in the chicken house.

I grew up in a very rural area of Montana, on a ranch, and 26 miles from the town where we actually went to school. It was a bit remote. So it was a happy day when friends would actually make the trek out to visit us. It involved some planning. As I recall, all of us siblings were very protective of our alone time with our friends.

My brother had a few friends that I absolutely loved being around. Jeff was the hottie. Todd and Tim were the rough and tumble type. “Jim” (because I can’t for the life of me remember his name right now) was brainy and always inventing things. Since my friends were the barn cats and Erik was 5 years older than me, I was drawn to the excitement of Erik and his adventurous buddies.

I admit it. I stalked them. I got in their way. I probably really irritated all of them with my incessant giggling.

There were a few things Erik would do to get rid of me. Both seemed to work incredibly well.

The first was to tie me with twine to a fence post. I have to admit, he gave me a fighting chance. He would bind my hands behind me with the plastic twine BUT he would give me a dull jackknife with which I would painstakingly saw back and forth across the twine that encircled my wrists. (Yes, sawing with a jack knife, directly on my wrists, with no visual. The jack knife was VERY dull – I never once cut myself) More often than not I would eventually drop the knife and spend the afternoon in the hot sun, tied to a fence in the middle of a deserted corral.

The second tactic was to play upon a much more fearful possibility. You see, I didn’t hate chickens because I was locked in with them. The hate came first. (You are, I’m sure familiar with the age old question – Which came first the chicken imprisonment or the hatred of all things chicken?)

We had a rooster named Rocky. He was the embodiment of all things evil. He would see you, squint his eyes a little bit (I swear), and come running after you with the willful intent to cause great bodily damage. Roosters have these things on the back of their feet called spurs. Spurs are basically a long, sharp claw like thing that they use for defense. Rocky however made the switch to offensive spur usage.

Oh, he was scary.

So, when Erik would lock me in the chicken house, I would also be locked in with Rocky. They layout of the chicken house was this…

There was a small room that was enclosed. One wall had a small door (about 2x2 feet) that could be opened out into a fenced in enclosure. The top of this enclosure was also fenced, but it did have a wire trap door where you could crawl out the top and onto the roof of the enclosed chicken house.

I would get locked into the first house with the chickens. It was dark and dusty and smelled terrible. Chickens would cluck in the dark recesses. Rocky would stealthily pace back and forth idarknessky darkeness, just out of site. I knew my only escape was the small door leading out into the wire enclosure.

But, there was one problem.

To crawl out this door, one must leave one's.....um....posterior exposed to Rocky's spurs. A successful escape involved speed and agility. And many times screaming and crying. I made it every time. Almost.

He did get me in the upper thigh the last time. He left two deep blood-seeping wounds. I ran crying and screaming to my babysitter Lisa. She could do anything. She stalked down to the chicken house with a 5 gallon stainless steel bucket and a huge nail, plunked the bucket over Rocky, and banged and banged until a reeling rooster staggered out. He was going to do no harm for awhile.

Only a few days later, Rocky was kicked by our horse, Bitsy. He didn't make it long.

And I was not sad.

Now, don't be mad at Erik. He was only "using his imagination" in coming up with ways to get me to leave them alone. If anything....

Eat more chicken.

Join me in the fight to eradicate all chickenish poultry from the planet!


At 2:30 PM, Blogger Squishi said...

nup. My child psychology skills (ok i have none, i am making that up) say that "HE LIKED YOU".


At 3:37 PM, Blogger KOM said...

I like chickens. They taste good.

I do my part almost every day.

At 2:29 AM, Blogger Ant said...

Agree with squishi - I think they liked you (both Erik and maybe Rocky too?) Though did Erik never get a slap about the ear-hole for inflicting such torture on you?

At 1:04 PM, Blogger Janie said...

bwok-bwok, sqwak! one down, billions to go. fear not, shari, i am on the chicken eating bandwagon!! (i'm glad you survived!) i feel your pain, as the-worst-day-of-my-entire-life involved chickens as well.


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