Pat, my free-range, mostly-just-a-pet rooster, bit my twin sister last weekend. I was out of town, selling soap at a Hippy Fair, when it happened. She texted me a dramatic, “Your rooster bit me!” along with a photo:
I’ll admit–I wasn’t too sympathetic. I figured she probably deserved it.
But then Pat bit me, too.
Of course, I must make some excuse for him because he is my darling Pat. So here goes: he was grumpy because he has been banned from roosting on my brother-in-law’s motorcycle. Apparently, he has scratched it a bit, and somebody was cranky about it. So we dragged a tarp over to the bike and covered it, which probably needed to happen anyway because it’s winter and all, and besides, the motorcycle is really, really dusty. The kind of dust that just begs for you to write “wash me” in it. I couldn’t even get a decent picture of my chicken sitting on the bike because it was so dusty that the pictures just looked awful. Pat got lost in all that dirt.
Anyway, he was grumpy, and I was trying to pet him. So he bit me. Sort of a bite and a twist, like this mean little girl who was in my Sunday school class when I was really little: she would pinch and twist. It was like that. I mean, it wasn’t Band-Aid worthy or anything , but it did hurt. And I felt betrayed. After all, I had just given him a bunch of croutons to prove my love for him. Evidently, he either didn’t believe me or didn’t care. Or he doesn’t like croutons.
Tomorrow morning, I’ll give him a cornbread muffin from Cracker Barrel. I brought it home tonight just for him, because even though he bit me, the little turd, I still really love him.