“Wait … is that … a chicken?!” I exclaim as the black and white spotted bird makes its way, rather quickly, to the side of Natalie’s car. It takes all of what is left of my pride not to jump on top of the Hyundai in order to get away from the scary monster with feathers.
Natalie had been in her car when the beast approached, but was now next to me, well actually in front of me, assuring me that it was not going to hurt me so there was no need to worry.
“My mom and I feed a few of these outside our house, Jessica, it’s okay. And I think that it is a rooster, not a chicken. And it is certainly NOT a monster.” And as she begins to open that encyclopedia-sized mind of hers to tell me the differences between a chicken and a rooster “…. you see it has a gizzard …” all I hear are the quiet and eerie sounds coming from the beak of that bird.
Natalie, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to notice my not listening to her as she changes the subject and instructs me to go get some bread from Sarah’s apartment. “… Yes, they like it. I feed it to them all the time …”
Of course she would be an expert on roosters too, I think as I head up the stairs, wishing that our adopted cats had not disappeared just moments before this frackin’ bird showed up. Believe me, I have always been the person whose eyes tear up when Sarah Mclachlan shows the sad puppies and kitties in their cages while singing “In the arms of the angel.” But for some reason unbeknownst to me, birds hate me.
Grabbing the bread and heading back down the stairs, I see that Natalie has her hand outstretched in an attempt to comfort the beast. Traitor, I think to myself as I break off a piece of the bread and hand it to her. I have only fed one type of bird in my life, a duck, and it bit me. So in order to not relive that traumatizing event, I pinch off a piece of Ms. Baird’s finest and chunk it on the sidewalk.
“No, that is too big. You need to make the pieces smaller so it can pick them up with its beak. Here … like this …” She takes my piece and rubs it between her fingers as tiny shreds fall from her hands and land softly in front of the rooster. For a moment you would have thought it was snowing.
After failing to successfully feed the bird, I take the bread back to the kitchen while Natalie tries to get Chicken Little to talk to her.
“C’mon little guy, what’s wrong …What is it?… Is Timmy in the well?!” This last part makes me laugh, and I feel calm for the first time in 20 minutes.
“It’s like it’s trying to tell us something,” I say as I side-step around the rooster to the car.
“Yea, I don’t know what is wrong with this thing, but now it just needs to move.”
It takes me a minute before I get the courage to step over the feathery monster and slide into the passenger seat. Once in the seat, I peek over the window to find that it still has not moved, and now it looks as if it is going to peck the window to death.
This is not the day to face a ninja chicken, I think as I motion Natalie to get in the car so we can leave this beast behind. But she is too busy laughing at my irrational fears and taking pictures.
“Just hold on … make that face again, please …” She is gasping for breath now as I apparently succeed in reliving this trauma. Making a face that causes her to keel over and laugh even harder.
Okay so maybe this is pretty funny.
Or maybe it is just one of those days.
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