Between Zoomies and Iced Coffee

This morning started like every other morning. I grabbed the chicken feed, took a deep breath, and headed down to check on the flock.

From the house, I could already hear a suspicious amount of clucking.

Not normal clucking.

Conspiracy clucking.

The kind of clucking that makes you wonder if a secret chicken board meeting had been called before sunrise.

I had also heard Kung Pao Rooster crowing unusually early this morning. Now, most people would think, “Oh, how nice. The rooster is greeting the day.”

Not me.

When Kung Pao does something out of character, it’s usually because he’s planning violence.

As I approached the coop, the girls all seemed perfectly fine. Henrietta, the chunky one, was already searching for breakfast as if she hadn’t eaten in three years.

Which is impressive considering I personally watched her eat yesterday.

And the day before.

And every day since I’ve known her.

I opened the coop door and immediately got the morning welcome from Mr. Kung Pao himself.

By “welcome,” I mean he launched into the air like an angry feathered ninja.

Wings flapping.

Feet kicking.

Tiny dinosaur noises coming out of his face.

I don’t even know what his plan was.

Sir, you weigh eight pounds and have the emotional stability of a caffeinated squirrel.

What exactly are we trying to accomplish here?

I have never done anything to this rooster except feed him, provide shelter, and occasionally call him names.

Which, quite frankly, he earned.

After surviving the morning air assault, I made my way over to the nesting boxes to see if the ladies had left me any eggs overnight.

Simple task.

Open nesting box.

Check for eggs.

Leave with all body parts intact.

That was the plan.

So naturally, it went horribly wrong.

The second I opened the nesting box door…

POP!

Up came Kung Pao’s head.

Right through the opening.

I nearly launched myself into another zip code.

It was like a game of Whack-A-Mole.

Except instead of a mole, it was an angry rooster with the attitude of a mob boss.

Whack-A-Rooster.

Not that I would ever whack a rooster.

Mostly because my chicken stick was on the other side of the fence.

And also because I prefer not to explain to people how I ended up in a wrestling match with poultry.

The worst part?

I KNEW he was going to do it.

The entire time I was opening the box, I was thinking:

“He’s going to pop up.”

“He’s absolutely going to pop up.”

“Don’t pop up.”

And then…

POP.

There he was.

Looking at me like I owed him money.

Meanwhile, I’m just trying to grab eggs.

That’s it.

I’m not stealing his car.

I’m not evicting his hens.

I’m not trying to overthrow the government.

I’m collecting breakfast.

The man acts like I’m breaking into Fort Knox.

And let’s not forget that literally minutes before this encounter, I had poured treats into the coop for him and his entire harem.

Treats.

For free.

Every single day.

If someone handed me snacks every morning, I wouldn’t respond by trying to launch a surprise attack from a nesting box.

I’d say thank you.

Kung Pao says, “Choose violence.”

Every.

Single.

Time.

At this point, I have legitimate Rooster PTSD.

I walk down to that coop every morning like a soldier entering a combat zone.

Heart racing.

Hands shaking.

Scanning every corner.

Wondering:

“Where is he?”

“What’s he planning?”

“Is today the day he finally figures out how to use weapons?”

The hens are sweet.

Henrietta is busy eating her feelings.

And then there’s Kung Pao.

The self-appointed Supreme Leader of the Coop.

Protector of the Hens.

Guardian of the Nesting Boxes.

Professional Heart Attack Distributor.

Tomorrow morning I’ll head back down there again because somebody has to feed these chickens.

But I can guarantee one thing.

Somewhere in that coop, Kung Pao is already plotting.

And unfortunately for me…

he’s getting smarter.