Rachel Dahl
I never thought I’d be a chicken lady.
When we were kids there were always chickens as a normal part of the daily chores. At some point during our early upbringing there was also a very mean rooster. Every time we would go in the pen to feed, he would do what roosters do and attack us. At the time it seemed quite brutal and was very frightening. We figured out that if we climbed in the top of the barn, we could chuck the food down through the top of the chicken pen and a avoid him all together.
Sometimes the chickens would be out all day free ranging, which meant that we would cut a wide swath around wherever he was. Our entire course of play could be altered with appearance of the awful little creature.
I don’t even think he had a name, we were all so scared of him. He finally landed in the soup pot one day after attacking the barely toddling Harvey as he and my mom slowly made their way to the horse pen to watch dad with some new colt. We hated him so much none of us kids would eat it.
Chester now fills the attack rooster role at my house. Rescued as he was from a guy in Lemmon Valley whose neighbor was threatening to shoot him, I feel like Chester should be a lot more grateful and a lot less aggressive. At first I was completely traumatized and the PTSD from my youth would send me in a wide circle to the bunny barn, which Chester guards like Fort Knox. But the more I was around the flock and watched how they all interact, it became apparent that he was just doing his job, and he was super good at it. My instinct to hold him off with a shovel was replaced by grudging respect and then I found myself not wanting to do anything to discourage him from protecting his girls.
One day when he was feeling particularly spicy, I happened to be wearing thick winter leggings and tall, rubber chore boots and just let him have his way with my right leg. He came at me in twelve different directions with great gusto, plowing into my armored leg with his impressive back claws, and I realized it didn’t even actually hurt. We now have a bit of an understanding, but still sometimes, usually when I’m in a chore dress and bare-legged, Chester will have a go at me and re-establish his dominance.
The other day as I approached the house, Chester had decided his protection now encompassed the large front deck. He attacked my leg as I walked along, hopping up to spur me as I sort of mocked him while gently encouraging him, telling him what a good protector he was and what a good job he was doing.
As I looked down at him, tearing into me with all the vim and vigor he possessed, it dawned on me what a metaphor this was for raising children and navigating people in general. You spend a lot of time encouraging, and sometimes there’s a fiery one who is just determined to hone their skills on you in spite of your support.
So, while we tear through life, learning lessons from the barnyard, we’ll still be right here…
…Keeping you Posted.
Rach
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