Nigel has the best feathers. Of course, he also has the worst attitude. A strapping Silver Laced Wyandotte, Nigel is the fowl equivalent of a British rock star with his black & white “body suit” and abundant bravado. He struts amidst the other birds and his crow is distinctive, a sing song King Kong growl, announcing his dominance to the world, or at least to Bountiful, our 50-acre farm.
Evening is the most dangerous time to collect feathers. Between cast offs from Nigel, ten turkeys, eleven guinea hens, six ducks, and God-only-knows-how-many other chickens, I can gather a dozen or more feathers a day from black, reddish or white to striped, dotted, and everything in between. I have filled three freezer bags for our Choctaw friend, Greg, who uses feathers in his Native art. I’m not sure what it is about dusk that sets Nigel off, but when he starts peeking at me while he pecks and sidestepping in my direction, I am more apt to go with a flight versus fight response.
He’s probably only eight pounds, 10 at the most. So, I am easily fifteen times his size, but on the two occasions when Nigel bumped me on the calf with his breast, oxygen abandoned my lungs as if my assailant were a much larger beast. It did not hurt, but I could tell he meant business. Since then I have been on my guard, keeping an eye on him so he cannot sneak up on me. Nigel is cunning, shrewd, calculating. He acts like he’s pecking at morsels on the ground, and very well may be, but sometimes I forget his eyeballs are on the sides of his head, so when it appears he is looking away, he’s actually got me locked in his sights.
I am no expert on chicken athleticism, but Nigel’s a good runner. He sure seems to be when he’s chasing me. I cannot attest to my own athleticism during these pursuits, I just know there’s a lot of screaming.
The first time Nigel attacked me, I was heading toward our driveway, a third-of-a-mile hike down what seems like Mount McKinley at times. I carried only my backpack purse and a puffed package, which needed mailing. For no reason at all I turned back, just in time to see Nigel running at me full-tilt. I screamed and smacked him with my package. It pushed him back but he quickly rebounded, rushing again. Five times I smacked him, four times he rebounded. He might have tried for a perfect score, but I bolted down the driveway, leaving him at the edge of our house crowing in victory.
There is speculation as to why roosters attack humans. He thinks I’m a rooster. He thinks I’m a hen. Whatever it is, peaceful resolution is clearly not an option. Farmers around here have their own stories. They’ve had to shoot at chickens, hit, kick or nearly drown them, and still, most don’t give up, although the nearly drowned one wandered off into the woods, never to be seen again. For some, it ends in death.
Since the demise of Nancy, Nigel’s female counterpart, we have no other chicken with Nigel’s unique coloring. While our Plymouth Rocks are also black and white, they are more striped while Nigel is ... well, not. With each feather a breathtaking original, Nigel looks hand-painted by God. Considering his combative nature, though, it is perhaps his beauty alone that has saved him from the chopping block. Beauty and bravado; we just love that cocky cock.
But now I’m scared. Or perhaps the word is cautious. I feed our dogs dinner at six o’clock, and sometimes my husband Jerry and I will walk into the far pasture with them, let them run around. Then I’ll come back near the house for a little feather picking. This started when a lady at church asked me to collect a few for her granddaughter. Apparently young girls are wearing feathers in their hair these days. When I learned that our artistic friend also liked feathers, searching for them became my new hobby. I love finding specimens with unique designs and perfect, unruptured barbs. But, thanks to Nigel, my evening excursions are now peppered with a touch of post-traumatic stress.
The danger is greatest while feather picking behind the house. That is Nigel territory. Of course, in his mind, it’s all his, all fifty-point-two acres. But the rear of the house, with its nearby trees and various sheds and out-buildings, offers him protection and opportunities for stealthy ambushes. There are also wonderful feathers to be found in this region of Bountiful.
So, sometime after six, I am usually plodding through the backyard grass, bent at the waist in search of fowl feathers. I carry a bag for my glorious collection and a walking stick, to fend off my foe. Every few seconds I check left, then check right, looking for Nigel. Where is he? Is he close? Is he watching me?
I’ll pick up white feathers, big turkey feathers, and tons of gorgeous polka-dotted ones from guinea hens. But I am most content when I find a Nigel feather. For some reason, they are rarely mussed. So perfectly plumed, his feathers are like artwork on a stick--strokes of black on a white canvas with no two alike. I am tempted to just stand there admiring it, but that’s when I feel him. Watching me. Incensed now that I have one of his.
I look ... left ... right ... ahead ... behind! Then I spot him, stepping out from the tree line toward me, picking up speed. There’s that instant of recognition-requiring-response which causes an infinitesimal moment of paralysis that lasts an eternity when something fierce is heading your way. Finally, although it took less than a second and despite the fact that I have a big stick in my hand, I am running. Around the house to the front porch. Screaming, calling Jerry (although it sounds a lot like screaming), praying one of the dogs will jump out and save me. I slip on some bird poo and nearly give Nigel a prone target before securing my footing and slamming into the screen door. Yank! I’m in. I’m safe.
Nigel crows and struts by with a look I read as, There’s always tomorrow, sweetheart.
Once in the house, I catch my breath, relax, and transfer my beautiful feathers to the overstuffed baggies. As adrenaline wanes, I awaken to a new sensation. Then, I take out an icepack from the freezer and set it on my thigh as I lower myself to the sofa. Pulled a muscle slipping on that dang bird poo. Might be a few days before I can get back out there.
This is my life. This is our way, me and my nemesis. I got another showpiece feather from my scary but still favorite bird, but Nigel got a little revenge this time around.
