Of all the animals on our farm, the one that terrifies me the most is just shy of two feet, and I could probably punt him into our neighbor’s plot if I wasn’t paralyzed with fear every time he sauntered by. Our rooster, by far, is our scariest animal for me — and he knows this. I do appreciate the irony that it’s not our Africanized “killer” bees (I think that’s a misnomer anyway…) nor the feisty watchdogs that roam our neighborhood that cause me to run screaming in the other direction, but a fluffy bird that wants nothing more than to live out his days pecking clover.
I really can’t explain my fear either. It’s completely irrational. But whenever I have to pass him by I swear he’s staring me down, waiting for an opportunity to attack. My only mental saving grace is that I know I can out-run him. Although the one time he did, in fact, “attack” I didn’t exactly run away, I folded my arms into my chest and let out a mix of high-pitch screeching and laughter. The 7-year-old girl who lives at Almeria eventually came to my rescue by charging the stupid bird and throwing pebbles in his direction.
And, when I say “attack” it was more like an all-out lunge at my knee-cap, while he beat his wings back-and-forth in attempt to seem scary. It totally worked. Although, when I rushed back into our house to show Mads my battle wounds, there really wasn’t much there. Just some dirt on my pants…and that could have been from our ducklings. Damn rooster. No me gusta el gallino.