Frederick and I took a stroll down to the chicken coop to free the hens from their quarters. I opened the door and stood back as the flood of girls headed to the new green grass, to eat contentedly and to add rich fatty acids to the yolks inside of them.
Frederick, aged "three and three-quarters" (as he would report to you), stood about 10 feet away. I turned to join Frederick and noticed the rooster heading our way. The rooster looked determined to do something and before I knew it, my calf provided the shield between him and my preschooler son. I reached down to swoop up Frederick as I shielded him with my body. I let out a sharp scream. The rooster lunged at us again, met my foot in a swift kick, and scratched my shin through my pants.
I was reminded of the time back in grammar school when a friend brought over a rooster to assist our hens in populating the world. Our friend Henry failed to mention that the bird was a retired fighting cock. No one stepped foot in that backyard until Henry returned to collect the bird.
I decided that our rooster missed his calling as I headed up the driveway, carrying a screaming child and turning around to administer kicks to this persistent rooster. Sander happened to be taking a bag of trash out at the time and, in a he-man fashion, threw the bag of trash at the rooster. That cooled down the rooster.
And in my he-man fashion that greatly disappointed my friend Veronica, I invited my dad over for burgers. He just needed to bring his gun and his good eye as a hostess gift.
“What? You didn’t do it yourself? Aren’t you ‘Mandy, daughter of Jeanie’ who can conquer all challenges?”
“I was tired and my dad offered. And besides, I displayed my strength as my dad got ready to fire. I used my strong legs to run far up the driveway because I am desperately afraid of bullets ricocheting across the property.”
“And what about dinner? Didn’t you even eat this guy?”
“Come on, I was tired. And he did end up in the food chain. After he was shot, I went down and, with my great strength, I managed to throw him another 10 feet down the hill.”
But the toughest question didn’t come from Veronica.
“Mama, where did the rooster go?” asked Frederick.
“He went to somebody else’s house.”
“Whose house, mama?”
“I think his name was Jesus,” I responded, pronouncing the name “Jesus” in Spanish.
Sander overheard and added, “Are you sure he didn’t go to Diablo’s house?”
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