This was a chicken with a real in-your-face approach, with more than a little chip on its slender chicken shoulder (or should I say ‘clavicus ornithus?’). Did I mention the aggressive pecking? Oh sure, the chicken pretended to be snapping at the ground at some imaginary grain of who-knows-what. But when its razor-sharp beak sheared a thick slice of meat off my ankle, dropping me to the ground like a sack of potato salad, followed by some painful squeezing of my face with its claws, I began to suspect something was up.
Someone had to change, me or the chicken.
At first, I thought it was me. But after several sessions of therapy, I realized it was the chicken who needed some major help.
I organized an intervention. And by that, I don’t mean what is usually referred to in agricultural circles as a ‘chicken intervention’ (i.e. the lopping off of the head). No, this was a real, honest-to-goodness gathering of the chicken’s closest friends (i.e. me and the undersized, dreamy-eyed chicken who only walks in concentric circles) with the intention of appealing to the chicken within. To help it see that it has all the love in the world in support of its healing.
The intervention didn’t go as planned. Licking its lips after having polished off its slow friend, the chicken turned its attention to me. Fortunately I had brought some back-up, and I quickly skewered the chicken with three pitchfork prongs, pinning it against the wall of the chicken coop.
And that is where its body remains today. Pinned against the wall of the coop, it will stay as a warning to all the other would-be chicken punks. Don't mess with the man.
