OpinionJanuary 14, 2025

A tale of survival and sibling betrayal unfolds as a boy battles a vicious rooster, only to face his mother's wrath after a secret barbecue plan goes awry. Discover what happens when tempers flare.

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I guess the only thing that I can think of that’s meaner than a rooster is a mad woman. I’m here to tell you, I’ve seen a few of them ol’ birds that would take on satan himself and wouldn’t call for reinforcements.

My ma had an ol’ red rooster one time that was the meanest thing that ever scratched in dirt. You could look him straight in the eye and he would still hit you with all the fury of a tornado.

Heaven help you if you had your back to him. Every time I went to the chicken house to feed and gather the eggs, that ol’ dude would collar me. He’d come at you with his head down, hackles out, and wings spread like if he was ready for takeoff.

When he got within about good kickin’ distance, he’d jump on you like ugly on an ape. First, he’d get a beak full of hide while he was workin’ them spurs.

I’m here to tell you he could put a rodeo cowboy in the shade when he was walkin’ up and down your legs with them spurs.

Them wings wasn’t on no vacation either. I’d be squallin’ and kickin’ and he’d be thrashin’, peckin’, and spurrin’. I mean he brought the blood.

Well, mom got tired of patchin’ me and my britches and told me the next time that ol’ bird tries to overhaul me to take a stick and kill him. You might guess it wasn’t long before the next battle was staged.

Although we lived in the timber, there wasn’t a club within a hundred yards. As soon as he turned loose of me, I found a rock about the size of your fist and I flat rocked and rolled that rooster.

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I don’t know why, but I was afraid to tell my mom about the cock slayin’, but friend Hooch was standin’ by with some good advice. Why don’t we just take him up to the persimmon patch and roast him and not tell my ma nothin’ about it.

Sounded like a good safe decision to me so off we go with slain bird in hand for a persimmon patch bar-be-cue.

Well, Hooch is pickin’ while I’m gettin’ fire wood. Somewhere along the way sister Margie makes the scene and asks what we’re doin’. I tells her what happened but she wasn’t supposed to tell mom.

Well, wouldn’t you just know it? Her dresstail didn’t hit her back before she’d run to the house and spilled the beans.

Here comes mom out of the house and I can tell right off she’s goin’ to be at our bar-be-cue, invited or not. Like I say, there is only one thing meaner than a fightin’ rooster, and that’s a mad woman.

After the next floggin’ was over, friend Hooch asked me why I didn’t keep my mouth shut — he had the chicken hid.

Of course, there was red rooster feathers all over the hillside and sister may be a snitch, but she ain’t blind or stupid.

Courtesy of Tom Runnels Publications. Copyrighted and Registered by Tom Runnels and Saundra Runnels Revocable Trust. Printed in The Banner Press: Jan. 5, 1989.

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