I don’t like chickens, actually that isn’t the truth, I’m scared of them. There, I said it, and I said it first, so it can’t be used against me. I’ve had several traumatic memories from childhood that make me feel jittery and slightly nauseous around chickens, or more specifically roosters.

There was the time I was visiting my Aunt, and the neighbor came over, and he had big bloody holes in his jeans. It looked like a dog got ahold of him really good. It wasn’t a dog, it was a Bantam rooster, who used the spurs on his legs to jab all the way up his leg. It left an impression on me, roosters can be violent.

Then there was the babysitter’s rooster. It was a tall white Leghorn that strutted around outside the yard. The swing-set was outside the yard. The bunny-hutches were outside the yard. The boys and I wanted to play outside the yard, but that rooster chased us when we dared to try. Once, we dashed to the swing set and sat on top of the slide while the rooster marched around us. We didn't dare stand up to him, because he was taller than the boys, and I might have had an inch or two on him. It’s no fun to be stuck on a swing-set you can’t swing on. When stuck standing on a slide, it is inevitable that you have to go to the bathroom, or become very thirsty.

We heard the train whistle, and clumsily turned around to watch the train rumble by. We waved to the engineer, and he waved back. We waved to the guy in the caboose, and he waved back as well. While we watched the train, the rooster wandered off.

We made our dash for the yard, and when we reached it the gate was stuck so I helped one boy over, then another, but the rooster had caught up to us while we were trying to get over the fence, and . . . and . . . it's embarrassing but I think I was raped by a rooster. He jumped on my back and wiggled and flapped and I screamed and . . . well I went home that evening with white stuff all over the back of my shirt.

Did I ever mention that I don’t like chickens, except fried, and in soup – they are very good in soup.