Quoth the Raven: "Watch your ass, Carrie." Part One.

I am afraid of birds. In theory, I think birds are great. I love watching an Eagle soar patriotically while superimposed over a waving American flag. I also love to eat chicken and turkey. And who doesn’t love a Pink Flamingo?  Someone without a heart, that’s who!

However, my personal history with birds is filled with nothing but fear, pain, and anguish. You see, I have been attacked by birds twice in my lifetime. This has left me distrustful of birds, what with their beady eyes and their beaks just waiting to peck my non-beady eyes out. Don’t even get me started on their gross scaly feet, either. I wouldn’t want to throw up all over you (unless you’re into that kind of thing; then I’d be happy to oblige).

The first time I was attacked by a bird was at the tender age of eight. We were living in a small town outside of Seattle. Our yard was huge and surrounded by great trees and other green leafy vegetation. Our best friend, who lived across the street, had even more property than we did and we would spend hours just playing and running around. It was pretty much perfect.

That is, until the day that my parents and my friend’s parents decided to build a chicken coop. Being a young girl, I fell in love with the cute little chicklets. They were so fuzzy and adorable! But then they grew up into squawking, smelly, disgusting chickens. After they lost their cute babyness, I wanted nothing to do with them. My mother had other plans, though, that would result in the most terrifying five minutes of my life.

One fine day, a bunch of us kids were playing a game of kickball in the field next to our neighbor’s barn. As usually occurred when we played any type of game, my sisters cheated and I ran home to tell our mom. Full of righteous rage, I told my mother that I would never play kickball with my sisters again and I begged my mother to punish them harshly!

Instead, my mom asked me to do the one thing that scared me more than anything on Earth: she wanted me to go collect the eggs from the chicken coop. The coop was small, cramped, and, not surprisingly, it smelled horrible. In order to collect the eggs, we had to go into the coop and reach under the chickens. I was scared, because I’d never done it by myself, but my mom insisted.

The coop was in the same field as our neighbor’s horse barn. To my 8-year-old eyes, the horse was the biggest horse in the history of horses. I loved to look at him and watch my friend ride him, but I was always scared that he would trample me. (Apparently, I was a huge fraidy cat.)

On that day, the horse was walking around and I made sure there was a lot of room between us as I made my way to the coop. Now, along with the stinky chickens and the huge horse, we had a rooster. I’ve never met any other roosters, but I imagine that they are probably all like this one. Instead of crowing to wake everyone up in the morning, he’d bust into your bedroom and punch you right in the face. He was mean, is what I’m saying.

There I was, walking towards the coop, trying to keep my eyes on the horse to ensure I would be able to get out of there without being kicked in the head, when the rooster just comes out of nowhere and attaches himself to my leg. He literally grabbed me with his talons (because these chickens had large talons) and began pecking the hell out of my 8-year-old thigh.

I don’t know about how you would react, but when this happened, I very nearly crapped in my pants. I began running and yelling, while still trying to be somewhat quiet because I was afraid I’d spook the horse and end up just another girl who was tragically trampled by a horse while being chased by a rooster.

This next part is the stuff of family legend. While all of this was going on, my sisters were still playing (read: cheating at) kickball in the next field. All of a sudden, they see me running away from the coop with the rooster hot on my tail. So, they did what any caring family would do, they laughed and teased me mercilessly.

From that point on, any time I brought friends home, my family would recount the tale of the rooster. This was really the only thing they had to tease me about, though, because I, much like Mary Poppins, am practicly perfect in every way.  So, whenever it gets brought up, and it does, I always try to graciously laugh along with them.  I mean, isn’t it always hilarious when someone almost gets killed by a chicken?  Well, my family thinks so!

Stay tuned for Part Two: Wherein our heroine is again placed in mortal peril by a terrible winged creature.

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