Chicken Kickin'

It was a really bad day. There wasn't any real reason for it to be a bad day, either. I wasn't angry at anyone in particular, except possibly whichever idiot had designed the bathrooms at the ASLC. Nothing big or earth-shaking had happened, and no one had insulted or offended or snubbed me (or at least, not that I had noticed). It simply seemed like every time I turned around, a bathroom stall door would bang on me, or an automatic toilet would flush yet again, or a sink on the other side of the bathroom I was cleaning would turn itself on for no reason. I would open a paper towel dispenser and hundreds of M-fold paper towels would cascade onto the floor. I would bend over to pick them up, and a bathroom stall door would bang into me. I'd turn to get away from the bathroom stall door and crash into the wall. Then I would try to change a roll of toilet paper, the toilet would flush, the dispenser would have too strong a spring and go shooting across the room, the toilet would flush again, I would retrieve the dispenser, making another toilet flush, I would unwrap the new roll of toilet paper, drop the dispenser again, bend over to pick it up, get smacked by the stall door, the toilet would flush, I would bang my head on something, put on the roll of toilet paper, get my fingers pinched in the dispenser, the toilet would flush, the stall door would smack me again, the toilet would flush, and I'd trip on my way out of the stall and crash into the sinks while the toilet flushed once again just to spite me. By the end of my eight-hour shift, I felt that I couldn't possibly be in a grouchier mood even if I'd had an overweight retarded kid sitting on my shoulders all day hitting me in the head with a dead blue-ringed octopus while shrieking profanities in Swahili.

So I finally went home, and Cindy asked me to feed the chickens. I decided to feed the big chickens (the layers) first. But the moment I opened up the chicken coop, they all ran right past me into the yard. Controlling my worn-paper-thin temper rather well, I decided that since there was still a half hour or so until it got dark, I may as well let them peck at bugs or whatever it is they do in the yard for a while and round them up later. I finished feeding the big chickens and gathering eggs and headed over to the smaller chickens' coop. (By this point, the little chickens aren't really little anymore, but the title has stuck. Besides, it feels so much better than calling them "meat chickens" or "future supper.") As I walked over to feed the future supper, I saw Sparky, the rooster, near the little chickens' coop. He had climbed on top of one of the big hens and was, as Cindy puts it, "doing his thing." He finished his business and got off, strutting around and looking very proud of himself.

I finished feeding the little chickens (who decided they had to be obnoxious too and keep trying to run away) and decided it was about time to round up the big ones and get them back inside their coop. I clapped my hands the way Rob does when he rounds up the chickens. "Okay chickens! Time to go in!" I called.

They completely ignored me. Great.

I walked around and started shooing them towards the coop. "Come on, chickens! Get back inside! Go on!" They obediently started running back toward the coop. Except Sparky.

Sparky pecked at the ground. Took a slow step towards the coop. Pecked at the ground. Glared at me. Pecked at the ground again. He made it blatantly clear that I was not telling him what to do. 'If I'm going back in that coop,' he seemed to say, 'it will be because it's MY idea, you worthless overgrown bag of featherless flesh.'

"Sparky!" I snapped at him. I walked swiftly toward him, trying to shoo him towards the coop.

He rounded on me. 'I will NOT be intimidated!' he said in rooster-speak. He puffed up his feathers and glared at me, daring me to take another step toward him.

I did.

He charged at me, hopping up so he could get on my leg and spur me. I kicked him. (Don't freak out. He took a chunk out of my leg once before, and Cindy and Rob told me it's okay to kick him when he does that, because it will humiliate him more than hurt him as long as I'm just kicking him hard enough to keep him off. I didn't give him a full-strength WHONK! like I wanted to.)

Sparky flew back about five feet, landing on his butt. He scrambled to his feet before the hens could see this indignity and charged in again. I kicked him again. This time he scrambled to his feet, stood his ground, ruffled his feathers up, and started clucking threateningly at me. 'I haven't even started yet!' he threatened. 'I'll kill you! Don't even TRY to mess with me!'

"Shut up and get in that coop," I told him, taking another step toward him. He charged, and I kicked again, but this time, he hopped back away from the kick and came in after me as I pulled my foot back. Clever little bugger. I kicked him with my other foot.

He scrambled to his feet, ruffled his feathers up, and did the chicken equivalent of standing there with his hands on his hips. I, in turn, spread my legs out shoulder-width, put my hands on my hips, and then pointed at the coop. "Go!" I ordered him. "Now! Or I'll embarrass you again in front of your harem!"

He turned and started walking back toward the coop (rather faster than before), turning his head to glare at me. 'It was my idea all along,' he seemed to say. Then he walked into the wall of the coop because he wasn't watching where he was going.

As I locked the door to the chicken coop, I heard him crow angrily. I crowed back. Louder. Suddenly, I felt much better. Amazing how therapeutic it can be, kicking a chicken.