Cock-a-Doodle Don’t – Guest Post by Telling Dad

Dear Readers, you are in for a treat today! The awesome, amazing, and quite humorous work-from-home-Dad Greg of TellingDad.com is here today! I hope you’ll enjoy his guest post as much as I did, it made me laugh out loud! ~Henrietta

The first time I ever saw a chicken outside cellophane is when my father-in-law acquired a few to complete his goal of owning every animal pictured on a See ‘n Say wheel.

“The Farmer Says, ‘How can I make this barnyard even noisier?'”

Prior to his purchase, everything I knew about chickens I had learned from a bottle of K.C. Masterpiece. I knew that to properly care for a chicken you needed to marinate it (possibly overnight) and then grill it over indirect heat while routinely basting it before slathering it with barbecue sauce a few minutes before serving.

Beyond that, I hadn’t a clue what to do with a chicken that still had its feathers. Or its head.

So when I saw a group of gossiping hens clucking together in the barnyard, I approached them like I would one of my father-in-law’s thirty dozen barn cats. I leaned down, twiddled my fingers, and said, “Here, chicky, chicky.”

At first, the chickens scattered wildly into the wind, flapping their wings to simulate flight, and running in circles in a frantic attempt to get away from me. But with a little perseverance and a high-pitched soothing voice rivaled only by the Vienna Boys Choir, I was eventually able to coax one into trying to peck my eyes out.

I must have come between it and its unfertilized young because the thing charged at me like a Grizzly bear. It extended its wings as I imagine a Pterodactyl would before pecking its prey, lowered its head like an enraged bull, and squawked and bawked as it made a bee-line for my face.

“The Chicken Says, ‘Enjoy blindness you son of a…!'”

For those unaware, there are more than 60 different breeds of chicken, including the Ameraucana, the Cochin, the Wyandotte, the Nuggets, and the Fingers. I have no idea what breed my father-in-law owned but they sure were an ornery bunch.

Because of their behavior, my interest in interacting with chickens ended with that experience. They just weren’t the fun, friendly, and utterly clueless pack of animals I expected them to be. Every time I dared venture towards the barn, a few troublemakers would appear at the open door and slowly slide their talons across their necks to give warning.

My sympathies went out to the rooster. Granted he had the benefit of a 1:Everyone Else ratio, but that advantage is quickly negated when you consider the company. These chickens were mean, they were ugly, and they belonged in dipping sauce.

My father-in-law had also purchased a rooster during his spending spree because he wanted to make sure that no one within a 4-mile radius would be able to sleep past 4:30am.

Deep in slumber I was abruptly and rudely awakened by this cock-a-doodle-doodling creature, who I subsequently named “Dinner”. It wasn’t the cute kind of “cock-a-doodle doo” that the See ‘n Say people want you to believe. This was more of a war cry.

Dinner had noticed that the sun was just beginning to set over mainland China and thought the entire southern valley would like to know that it’ll be time to get up in approximately three more hours. A reminder he was all too happy to give every 36 seconds.

I thought roosters crowed once and were done with it. Like in the Kellogg Corn Flakes commercials. The sun comes up, the rooster says good morning, and we all enjoy a balanced breakfast with its offspring. Instead, roosters sit there and cockle and doodle and doo for HOURS on end. If I had access to a bat, Dinner would have met my snooze alarm.

I never tried to approach the rooster because I know for a fact that they’re famous for fighting areas of the body I’m not willing to sacrifice. As such, we kept our distance from each other. I’d walk by without making eye contact and he’d sit there on his tree stump mocking the fact that I live life with one lone female.

In preparation for this post I read a few sources about chickens. From those articles, and based on the stories I’ve read here on “A Hen’s Nest”, I think my father-in-law just bought some grumpy poultry.

Even so, the damage has been done, and I’m just not willing to get that close to a chicken ever again.

Unless I’m carving it.

Thanks for making my blog rock today Greg! My wish is that you’ll someday find a chicken… a live SANE chicken… who you can befriend.

Chickens really can be sweet instead of deranged! Oh, and I wish all of you would go visit TellingDad.com and check him out on Twitter (@tellingdad) too!