Or Never Stray From a Ritualistic Sacrifice to a Chicken God
I know I said this series was over for a bit.
Well, I lied.
And I realize I sound like I despise chickens and should likely not be a chicken owner. But understand that I truly do enjoy my chickens. They are entertaining and inspiring and utterly enjoyable. There is just a bit of a transitional period as we learn to work as a team on this little homestead. And for me, that transition is taking a bit longer than normal. Especially when it comes to roosters.
Roosters really do get a raw deal. So many roosters get killed/returned/abandoned simply because they are loud and territorial. And it’s not their fault, really. They are just doing their job. Protecting the flock. And in many cases, they do a good job. I haven’t lost a chicken to a beastie yet and I’m pretty certain it’s because of my high rooster to chicken ratio.
But because of their very small brains, they apparently have no idea who is friend and who is foe, even when their so-called “foe” is presenting them with sacrificial food.
Now I told you about my struggles with Count Rugen. And how his inability to be trained into a cooperative fowl caused us to rehome him.
Well he isn’t the only rooster I have struggled with. He’s just the only one that proved himself impossibly difficult.
Then there is Skatha.
Skatha is a Ayam Cemani chicken. Black to the core, in looks and in soul. Okay maybe not entirely soul but his attitude fits his appearance. He is adorned in a coat of silky black feathers that shine green in the sunlight. Clearly the alpha of the flock, he struts around, yelling his manly war cry and keeping the other chickens in line with a simple purposefully directed glare.
And he also hates me.
Apparently no one but me has presented themselves as much of a threat to this misogynistic rooster. Because I am the only one that apparently ruffles his feathers.
But have no fear. Because me and Skatha have come to an understanding. And understanding that looks a lot like food.
However, this food must be presented in a very specific manner in order to please the chicken God himself. If one varies from the ritual, the God is angered.
This ritual goes as follows:
Step one: Enter the barn and loudly proclaim what your offering is today.
Step two: Go outside to the chicken run and wait for the chicken god himself to emerge.
Step three: Throw several pieces of food to chicken god, but aim behind him so that he is forced to open the distance between you and him.
Step four: Enter the coop and gather eggs (and pet Henevere who is so blinded by her crown of feathers that she can’t see to go outside fast enough to enjoy the offering.)
As long as I stick to the ritual, all is good. Skatha is too distracted by his sacrificial gift to be bothered with the likes of me.
But there was one time I failed to follow the ritual.
One time that I have, to this day, paid the price.
You see, this one time, I decided to stray from the usual scattering of food. This time, I thought, foolishly, that I would treat my chickens to something new and fun.
An apple on a stick.
Now, it is known to many that an apple on a stick can be an exciting toy for chickens. They peck and eat and it bounces back and forth as they pass the apple to one another like a stationary fruity tether ball. I honestly had good intentions.
So I started the ritual per usual. I entered the barn and loudly proclaimed “CHICKENS!!! I have something fun for you! An apple! Come out and play!”
But as I got out to the run, not having anything to toss, I simply shoved the stick into the ground with the apple bobbing happily on top.
And out came Skatha, ready for his offering.
He popped his head outside, and took a look around. But there was nothing being tossed. Nothing raining down on him from the sky.
He looked around, confused. Walking around the apple, waiting for it to fly. But it wouldn’t. He didn’t call the others out to share his treat. He just looked around, occasionally looking at me, getting closer and closer to me.
At this point, I wasn’t too worried. He would figure it out. It was just going to take a little longer for his little brain to realize that what I had given him was a gift better than any tossed, overripe fruit peels. This was an edible TOY!
So I went inside the coop to gather eggs. Leaving him to figure it out.
But what I didn’t consider was that, this time, he would FOLLOW me into the coop, still looking for his food from the sky.
I started gathering a couple eggs and here comes the head honcho himself, not at all pleased with the scenario.
So, with eggs in hand, I went back out into the run, with the intention of helping him along in his realization of the lovely treat I gave him.
Outside, just me and him, I coaxed him toward the apple, gently encouraging him to give it a try. But his eyes, and his anger, were already on me. And only me.
Realizing I was in for it, I prepared myself for a battle. However, this time I had eggs in my hand so grabbing him was not an option without sacrificing these precious goods. So I did the only thing I could think of. The thing that managed to keep Count Rugen at bay when he was on a rampage.
I put my foot up in the air.
I pointed it straight at that bird as he came flying into me.
He came at me like a feathered ninja, leg outstretched, ready for the kill.
And as he came in contact with my foot, that leg swung at me with a fierce karate chop to the ankle. A chop I felt deep into my soul as chicken bone came in contact with ankle bone.
And then he realized there was this lovely apple on a stick that all the other chickens were now pecking at and he said “Oh. Cool!” and went on his way, enjoying his treat.
Me, on the other hand, was not reveling in the coolness of the situation. My ankle was now obviously injured. Nothing of too much concern. I could walk, and do pretty much everything mobile, but it was definitely bruised.
And as time went on, instead of getting better, it has slowly gotten worse. Until, a month later, I had to admit that I had been bested by a rooster and needed to see a doctor.
Believe me when I say I considered embellishing the story. Maybe it was a cow instead of a rooster? Perhaps I injured it in some heroic feat, barely coming out alive? But no, I had to explain, with head hung, that I was beaten up by a bird because I fed it an apple.
Fortunately, she’s a Vermont doctor and has seen many a farm animal related injury. She doesn’t think it’s broken. Simply messed up a tendon. But I’m going to need some physical therapy on it and possibly a visit to the podiatrist. Because I don’t like doing things halfway apparently.
But I will probably never again sway from the sacrificial ritual of offering food to the Chicken God.
Ok crazy chicken lady..did you know apple seeds have cyanide in them? So if you wake up to a coop full of dead birds, it must have been the apple seeds.
Good to know! Luckily nothing has happened so far. Live and learn
Good post.
thank you! i appreciate you stopping by and giving it a read!