Chickenlady cocks it up
Some years back I lived on a farm and kept a few birds for their eggs in the garden. There were eight chickens and two geese all in the same enclosure, most of the time they all got on tolerably well - the geese had to be let out in the morning before the chickens otherwise all their food would be scoffed by the stars of Chicken Run and poor old George and Mildred (the geese, even though they were both female) would go hungry despite being four or five times larger than the chooks. The geese kept to themselves and the chickens got on with doing what chickens do.
Six of my chickens were pretty hens who behaved like middle aged matrons with handbags as they clucked and scratched around their patch. I had two cockerels - Hector and Samson - both very attractive fellows but both were bantams so they suffered with the same problem that a great many vertically challenged people have - often known as Little Man's Disease or Short Arse Syndrome which tends to reveal itself in a huge amount of arrogance, chippyness and general pig-headedness. Hector and Samson had been nest mates; hatched at the same time and reared by the same adopted mother. The had done everything together; eaten their first worm, had their first cock-a-doodle, feathered their first hen...but these were the bad boys of the poultry world for they had both taken turns at hopping on Ethel their adopted mother. Each morning these two hard cocks would make their rounds of their feathered harem and sometimes twice - mothers, sisters, they didn't care, any vent was a goal.

All was reasonably peaceful apart from the poultry domestic violence and occasional theft of goose grain until Samson decided he was going to be in charge - to Hell with Hector and his house - this was going to be Samson's fowl temple.

The day they fell out was Easter Sunday - rather fitting I suppose. It was the wettest Easter we'd had for a long time. I opened up the geese as usual at about 6.00am and the chickens at about 6.10. Round one began with some flapping of feathers and a smattering of foot stamping from both cockerels and from me as they attempted to gain some ground. Then within moments they were at each other - cock fighting is of course illegal in the UK but these two bad boys wouldn't listen to the voice of reason, good god, they wouldn't even listen to the geese. Hector got Samson's comb in his beak and attempted to mount him like a hen, Samson twisted and turned until he could grasp Hector's wattles in his beak. Then they broke free and began to fly up at one another like multi-coloured feathered ninjas wielding inch long spurs like...like ninja swords and those throwing star things but their spurs didn't come off their ankles because these were normal bantam chickens and not superhero ones, although Hector and Samson seemed not to know this. The hens soon formed a large circle around the two young cocks and the ladies began to cheer and flash their vents as they performed chicken cheerleading dances (okay, that didn't happen - the hens carried on about their chickeny business and ignored them but that's not a gripping). All the while the rain was coming down and Hector and Samson were becoming more bedraggled, bruised and bloodied. This was Raging Bull with birds. Raging Chicken. Raging Cock (actually, isn't there a film called that?).

After about an hour of this fighting I could stand by no longer so I climbed over the fence and went towards the duelling pair. I knew this was a dangerous move - I could easily have been caught up in the battle and ended up going postal on the in-laws (why oh why was I so mild mannered back then? What a missed opportunity). I edged along the muddy path towards the birds, put on my thick gardening gloves for protection and lunged at Samson and missed, fortunately I managed to keep my footing despite slipping about a bit. The chickens didn't run off away from me instead they carried on their fight and I knew this was going to be to the death unless I stepped in with my green welly. I wiped the rain out of my eyes and crouched down, prepared for another shot at grabbing Samson. By now the rain was beginning to rain up - you know when it falls really heavily and splashes back up? My lovely bucolic idyll of a garden had turned into the Somme for chickens and the geese were slapping their big orange webbed feet around like giant flat footed French peasants full of fois gras.

So, there I am drenched to the skin in my wellies and lovely floral Easter Sunday dress, hair plastered to my head and mud splattered up my legs, hands encased in thick grey suede gardening gloves and my face red as a well smacked arse. I was ready to get him - Hector, Samson, I didn't care, I just had to stop the violence - enough was enough. I crept up slowly; the beating rain hiding the sound of my rubber footslaps on the mud. I paused, held my breath and waited for the spurs and feathers to stop flying up in the sodden air. One, two, three, GRAB! I had him! I had Samson by the tail feathers - not the correct way to hold a chicken, but I had him! But he didn't want to be had....when you pick up any bird you ought to hold them gently around the body with their wings tucked in - that way they feel safe and they can't flap their wings or hurt themselves.

Holding an angry cock by its tail is never to be advised.

He began to flap his wings and struggle for freedom to fight again and as he flapped so he began to turn clockwise faster and faster. I was mesmerised (to be fair, I didn't get out much those days). Soon he was just a blur of soggy feathers and squawking. And suddenly like the eye of a storm, the calm in the centre of a tornado, he stopped and in the stillness one blackened beady eye caught mine - he knew he was beaten. I had won - even if the circulation at the tip of my fingers was being cut off by the twisted feathers. Then just like that scene from The Exorcist as Samson began to unravel and turn faster and faster anti-clockwise like an Antichrist cock. I had to get him away from me....so (and I still feel bad about this even now after all these years and poor old Samson has since met a unfortunate end with the local Monsieur Reynard (I live south of London - we're part of the Nord pas de Calais according to the EU, so I can call him Monsieur Reynard)) I lifted my arm and hurled the twirling bird away from me. And in the rain his feathers glinted purple as they arced up over the fence, caught a green sheen as they descended until they became a shitty brown as he plopped into the mud outside the enclosure. And all the hens cheered for they were free of his evil reign. (Actually they carried on scratching about and clucking to themselves, but in my head they cheered).
I had won. I had saved the hens from the battling birds. I knew that Samson would return - he could easily fly back over the fence when the time was ready, but this would have taught him his place in the pecking order. It was Hector's House and Samson needed to know he couldn't get the better of me. I knew that when I opened them up the following morning both cockerels would be temporarily blinded by their fight and they'd look as if they'd had a punch up with Mike Tyson. Beady eyed Samson however knew that he would have the last laugh....

I climbed over the fence and missed my footing. I ended up on my backside, floral dress ruined in the mud and my knickers on show to the passing annual Christian Evangelical pilgrimage.
( chickenlady b3ta's very own Elizabeth Taylor, Mon 25 Jan 2010, 11:15, 4 replies)

Good to see you back!
I thought you had a REAL life these days!!

*clicks*


XXXX Che
(Che Grimsdale Best before:, Mon 25 Jan 2010, 11:59, closed)

I do have a real life
unfortunately the real life has been sucking all the pleasure out of writing and I haven't written anything for months, so this is me dipping my toe.
( chickenlady b3ta's very own Elizabeth Taylor, Mon 25 Jan 2010, 12:11, closed)

A monumental tale of knickers, cocks and mud.
I would expect no less of you.

*click*
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Mon 25 Jan 2010, 16:20, closed)

Dear lady...
You have warmed a small patch of the gritty frozen concrete that is my heart.

A tiny brightly coloured feather of well written story peeking out from under the heaps of barely articulate mud.
Thankyou.

Also gratuitous use of the word Cock at every opportunity. Ideal.
( DukeEuphoria Comes highly reccomended, Tue 26 Jan 2010, 10:11, closed)