Between Zoomies and Iced Coffee

As Told By Daisy Mae

The afternoon sun was warm, and for once, the farm was peaceful. No attacks. No dramatic crowing. No emergency security meetings. No accusations that a squirrel was plotting against the kingdom.

And perhaps most importantly…

No tall curly-haired lady had shown up at dawn with an early breakfast and suspiciously generous snacks.

The coop had survived the morning without zucchini, without watermelon, without oats, and without anyone carrying a bucket. As far as Kung Pow was concerned, it had been a very uneventful day.

Kung Pow Rooster stood on top of his favorite perch, chest puffed out so far it looked physically uncomfortable.

“I come from a long line of warriors,” he announced to absolutely nobody who had asked.

The hens exchanged looks.

Here we go again.

“I am the descendant of great protectors. Guardians. Legends.”

Buttercup rolled her eyes. Nugget sighed. Harriett wasn’t really paying attention. She was busy looking for snacks, which was her full-time job.

Mabel muttered, “Last week he claimed he was related to an eagle.”

“I heard that,” Kung Pow snapped.

“Good.”

Daisy Mae chuckled.

“Now hold on,” she said. “He’s exaggerating most of it, but buried somewhere underneath all that drama is a tiny speck of truth.”

That got everyone’s attention. Even Buttercup stopped scratching.

“What do you mean?” asked Nugget.

Daisy Mae settled into the grass.

“Well, if you’re going to understand Kung Pow, you’re going to need a proper history lesson.”

The hens groaned.

“Don’t worry,” Daisy Mae said. “I’ll keep it simple for those of you who spend most of your day looking for bugs.”

Harriett looked up.

“Was that directed at me?”

“Who else would it be directed at?”

Harriett nodded.

“Fair.”

Daisy Mae cleared her throat dramatically.

“Kung Pow came from a long line of strong roosters and chickens. The kind of family that believed every fox was a threat, every hawk was plotting something, and every squirrel was probably working for an organized crime ring.”

Across the yard, Kung Pow nodded.

“Accurate.”

“Of course you think so,” Daisy Mae replied.

“Let’s start with his mother, Chicken Diane. And before anyone asks, yes, I knew her personally. Unlike some chickens around here, I actually pay attention.”

The hens rolled their eyes.

“Chicken Diane was beautiful. Not quite as beautiful as she thought she was, but beautiful nonetheless. She had gorgeous orangish-red feathers with black highlights and one of those fancy little poofs on top of her head.”

“She was classy.”

“She was dramatic.”

“She was stubborn.”

“And she could win an argument before breakfast.”

“Kind of like Kung Pow?” Nugget asked.

“Exactly like Kung Pow.”

Across the yard, Kung Pow puffed out his chest proudly.

“That’s my mother.”

“Yes, we know,” Daisy Mae replied.

“Now his father was General Tso.”

The hens all groaned.

“Oh no,” Buttercup said.

“Oh yes,” Daisy Mae replied.

“General Tso took his job very seriously. Very seriously. He believed every rooster should stand tall, patrol the property, protect the flock, and be prepared for danger at all times.”

Foxes. Hawks. Raccoons. The mailman. A suspicious-looking wheelbarrow.

“General Tso once held a three-hour security meeting about a wheelbarrow.”

The hens stared.

“What was suspicious about it?” Nugget asked.

“Nothing.”

The hens blinked.

“It was a wheelbarrow.”

The hens erupted into laughter.

“I attended that meeting,” Daisy Mae added. “I could have been laying eggs.”

Across the yard, Kung Pow nodded solemnly.

“A wise precaution.”

“See?” Daisy Mae said. “Exactly like his father.”

The hens laughed even harder.

“Now Chicken Diane and General Tso loved each other very much. Unfortunately, they were also both convinced they were always right.”

The hens nodded.

“So they spent most of their marriage proving it.”

The hens laughed.

“But despite all that, they were devoted to each other. And together they had three chicks.”

Kung Pow stood taller.

“The oldest was Miss Cluckingham.”

The hens groaned.

“Oh, not Miss Cluckingham,” Buttercup said.

“Oh yes,” Daisy Mae replied.

“Miss Cluckingham inherited her mother’s beauty, her mother’s long elegant legs, and absolutely none of her humility.”

The hens laughed.

“She knew she was pretty. Very pretty. And she made sure everyone else knew it too.”

“Every single day,” Mabel added.

“Every. Single. Day,” Daisy Mae agreed.

Miss Cluckingham spent most of her childhood admiring her reflection in anything shiny. Water buckets. Windows. Puddles. A tractor once. If she could see herself in it, she was looking at it.

“Sounds exhausting,” Harriett said.

“It was.”

“As she got older, Miss Cluckingham became a prize-winning 4-H chicken. Blue ribbons. Trophies. Photographs. The whole thing.”

“She signed photographs,” Mabel added.

The hens stared.

“Of herself?”

“Mostly of herself.”

The hens burst into laughter.

“And if that wasn’t enough, she eventually married royalty.”

The hens gasped.

“Actual royalty?” Nugget asked.

“According to her, yes.”

“According to everyone else?” Buttercup asked.

Daisy Mae shrugged.

“He was the grandson of a rooster who won Best in Show at the county fair.”

The hens stared.

“That’s not royalty.”

“I know that. You know that. Unfortunately, Miss Cluckingham did not.”

The hens howled.

“She started calling herself Lady Cluckingham, demanded fancy feed bowls, and once requested a red carpet.”

“For what?” Harriett asked.

“Walking.”

The hens erupted.

“She still sends Christmas cards.”

“With pictures of herself,” Mabel said.

“On the front.”

“And the back,” Daisy Mae added.

“And that’s why nobody opens them anymore.”

“The youngest was Biscuit.”

The hens waited.

“That’s it?” Harriett asked.

“Pretty much.”

The hens laughed.

“Biscuit was nice. Friendly. Easygoing. Never caused trouble. Never started fights. Never challenged farm equipment.”

Kung Pow looked away.

“What happened to him?” Nugget asked.

Daisy Mae shrugged.

“He went to a farm.”

The hens stared.

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“No letters?”

“No.”

“No visits?”

“No.”

“No postcards?”

“No.”

“No one has heard from Biscuit since.”

A silence fell over the flock.

“Do we know what farm?” Harriett asked.

“Nope.”

“Where?”

“Nope.”

“Is he okay?”

Daisy Mae shrugged.

“I merely present the facts.”

Across the yard, Kung Pow nodded solemnly.

“Biscuit always wanted to see the world.”

“You mean the other side of the fence?” Mabel asked.

“Same thing.”

“Fair enough.”

“And then there was the middle child.”

All eyes slowly turned toward Kung Pow.

“Me.”

“Yes,” Daisy Mae sighed. “You.”

“From the moment he hatched, he thought he was special.”

“I was special.”

“Mama said I had leadership qualities.”

“You got your head stuck in a nesting box.”

“I was inspecting it.”

“You were six hours old.”

The hens exploded with laughter.

“You challenged a wheelbarrow to a duel.”

“It was looking at me funny.”

“You got stuck in a feed bucket.”

“That bucket was aggressive.”

“It was a bucket.”

“It knew what it did.”

Daisy Mae shook her head.

“Every evening, General Tso would gather the chicks and tell stories about legendary roosters defending their hens from danger.”

“Most of those dangers were completely made up,” Mabel interrupted.

“That’s not the point,” Kung Pow argued.

“The point,” Daisy Mae replied, “is that Kung Pow grew up believing one day he would become a legendary protector.”

Kung Pow nodded proudly.

“I have.”

The hens groaned.

“The problem was that nobody ever taught him the difference between an actual threat and a tall curly-haired lady carrying zucchini.”

The hens exploded with laughter. Harriett nearly dropped the bug she had just found. Buttercup wheezed. Mabel snorted. Even Nugget had tears in her eyes.

Across the yard, Kung Pow remained completely serious.

“You can never be too careful.”

“She brought us watermelon.”

“Could have been a distraction.”

“She brought us oats.”

“A tactical maneuver.”

“She brought us treats every day.”

“Exactly,” said Kung Pow. “Nobody is that nice without a plan.”

The hens stared at him. Daisy Mae stared at him. Even a squirrel sitting on the fence stared at him.

Finally Daisy Mae shook her head.

“And that, ladies, is how a perfectly good rooster from a perfectly respectable family became the self-appointed Supreme Protector of the Hen Den.”

Kung Pow puffed out his chest.

“I like that title.”

“Of course you do.”

“Can we put it on a sign?”

“No.”

“A banner?”

“No.”

“Business cards?”

Daisy Mae sighed.

“This is exactly what General Tso warned us about.”