Ruffled Feathers

Every afternoon when I come home from work, I let the girls and Freddie out to roam in the yard.  They love combing through the freshly mowed grass for bugs and grubs. (I should mention that our mole and gopher problem is resolved.  No grubs = no burrowing critters.)  Score one for the birds.

Nevertheless, everyday it’s the same routine.  I let them out.  They roam.  I tend to other errands.  I usually leave the yard unless I’m picking from my vegetable garden.  Regardless and without fail, once I reappear and Freddie catches sight of me, steam billows from his ears.  Come to think of it, I don’t even know if chickens have ears.

Anyway, he kicks up dirt like a charging bull and I am the matador.  Full speed ahead.  He doesn’t stop either once he gets to me.  He is not all bark.  In fact, if he had teeth, he would without a doubt sink them into my leg.  Instead he comes at me sideways (Dakota says it’s because he can’t see past his tall comb) and feathers ruffled, we duel.

Freddie’s been known to try to take a cheap shot at me when my back is turned.  He successfully planned a sneak attack on Dakota and I when we were picking tomatoes one day.  Right after I plucked a beefsteak from the stalk, there stared that yellow eye.  We were beak to nose.  Dakota and I barely escaped doing an army crawl through the rose bushes.  He’s sneaky, that bird.

I’m not sure which puzzles me more: why he hates me so or why I love him.  Regardless, next time I get my feathers ruffled about something, Ill remember how ridculous it actually looks.

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