So, this week we had a bit of a heart-stopping moment on the farm surrounding our roosters, who apparently woke up that day and chose violence.
We’ve got ten chickens on the homestead, and four of them are roosters (yes, I now understand that ratio is… optimistic at best). Chase and I raised them from chicks, and up until recently, everything had been pretty easy and even, dare I say fun.
Well, they’re fully grown now, and what I’ve learned over the past couple of weeks is this: mature roosters can be absolute jerks.
Friday afternoon, Papa was outside playing with the girls while I started dinner, spaghetti, of course, because apparently that’s the only meal my children believe I know how to cook. Violet came through the front door and told me she was going to play in her little house. “Okay,” I said, glancing out and seeing Papa with Autumn in the back. I made a mental note to check on Violet every few minutes.
I should have checked sooner.
Because when I turned my head, literally two minutes later, my poor girl was on the ground with two big, nasty roosters going full karate kid on her.
I ran from the kitchen and bolted across the gravel, barefoot, trying to kick them away. They were so mean they even took a few swings at me, which was bold of them considering how close they were to becoming chicken parmesan for dinner. I scooped Violet up and ran to the porch, screaming for Chase.
Her whole right cheek was covered in blood, and all I could think was, “Oh God, they got her eye.”
Chase came running in while I was trying to clean her up, and I started yelling what can only be described as panicked mother-language, something along the lines of, “AHH—V—blood—roosters—END THIS.” It probably made zero sense, but he’s been married to me long enough to translate. He didn’t ask questions. He just went outside.
Thankfully, once we got her cleaned up, it looked much worse than it was. She ended up with a couple of scratches on her forehead and a black eye, no stitches needed. I could breathe. She could breathe. And after hearing a few very definitive “pop pops” outside, I knew her daddy could breathe too.
Violet, however, has officially retired from farm life and refuses to go anywhere near the mother hens. Honestly, I don’t blame her. If birds the size of me attacked my face, I’d probably avoid it for the rest of my life too.
I think most of us who grew up around animals have at least one story about livestock getting the upper hand. After sharing what happened to Violet, I’ve heard more than a few “character-building” childhood trauma stories, mean chickens, charging goats, bucking horses, and that one mad momma cow you always had to watch out for when sorting calves.
(I still can’t get back on a horse after that mini launched me, by the way. And yes, I know what you’re thinking, it was a mini horse. But I was a mini kid, and that thing looked full-sized.
And I’ll never forget the goose that chased my cousin Brason clear across my grandparents’ yard. That memory is permanently burned into my brain… kinda funny.
I do feel awful about what happened, and I hope no one thinks I wasn’t watching my girls. The reality is, things like this happen in a split second, faster than you can react, even when you’re close by. Still, it’s a hard reminder of how quickly farm life can turn, and I won’t be taking my eyes off them so easily again. Around here, we love our animals… but we’re also not above reminding them exactly where they stand in the food chain. Especially when you mess with my kids.
