I've been attacked by the roosters before, but always for a "reason," like taking eggs from the nest boxes, or picking up one of the hens to pet. They kind of flap up and come at you slashing their feet. The little one is all talk. He's about a pound. His name is Napoleon, and not for nothing.
That big one though: MAN, he's an asshole.
I'm home alone this afternoon, enjoying the beautiful weather, walking around the yard still in my work clothes and flip flops, and out of nowhere this guy with the fancy name comes flapping and puffing and flying at me. I'm in the middle of the yard- I search frantically for a gardening implement, a stick, something, but he gets me once on the foot. And again, twice, on the shin. Oh, it smarts!
I start kicking, screaming "NONONOYOULITTLESHIT!" and "ECHO,GETHIM!" and backing up to hide behind a tree. Then I stay there, peering around the trunk, and darting to either side as he flings himself at me.
Echo is absolutely no help. He inexplicably kills friendly chickens with no warning, but pretends not to notice when his person is being attacked by one. Thanks, buddy.
AND, I stew, as I bob and weave, Jake thinks its my fault! He says the roosters and the hissy geese can "smell my fear," or something ridiculous like that. How can you not be afraid of feathery flapping creatures with razors on their feet? Plus, Jake did have a small bloody gash on his head last week from last week when he poked his head in the coop to look for eggs and met Rutherford. So there!
After about ten minutes, the rooster drifted away enough for me to make a break for the house. I gave him and his ladies a wide berth.
And now, thrice puncture-wounded, I plot.
That is not funny, but your recap of the event is funny.
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