Digs and the Rooster (or, stupid city boy versus country bir
Jul 8, 2022 7:19:30 GMT -6
via mobile
Nighthawk, jwrauch, and 1 more like this
Post by Alpo on Jul 8, 2022 7:19:30 GMT -6
I unashamedly admit that I stole this from another board. It's just too good a story to not pass along.
Was on det ops in a little place in Turkey, crew got put up in a little hotel. Town was a half-mile hike past a small farmhouse.
One morning we were strolling into town. One of the crew (a N' Yawka of Italian heritage we'll call 'Digs') spotted a rooster in the yard. 'Hey, lookut th' chicken!'
Meh.
For some unfathomable reason, Digs headed toward the plank that bridged the steep wet ditch between the yard and the road. As he did, the rooster, noticing a prospective intruder (and likely, a welcome distraction from his daily routine of scratching and strutting) approached the bridge from his side. Digs stopped short of the plank, and the chicken took up a post on the other side, feathers fluffed, neck stretched, wings half-extended. Eyes glittering.
A challenge Digs could not ignore.
Despite our urgings to let the challenge pass and resume our trek into town, and my admonitions that -- having grown up in Missouri farm country, with some experience in the nature, abilities, and body language of roosters -- Digs was likely underestimating the potential downside of his quest.
'Aw c'mon Ell Tee. It's just a chicken. What's it gonna do?'
Digs put one foot on the plank, and the rooster remained motionless. Another step was equally unanswered, although a discerning eye could detect a barely-perceptible coiling on the part of the rooster. Having ignored our continued warnings, two steps later, Digs reached the approximate mid-point of the plank. At that point a brown, red, and blue feather missile launched. Digs reacted just quickly enough to deflect the bird from his face and eyes, but not fast enough to keep it off of his head. With a quick aerial pirouette, the rooster pivoted to Digs' head, drumming its spurs into the top and side of Digs scalp.
Time to get away.
Arms flailing like a used-car dealer's air dancer, Digs tried to effect his escape back to the road and the safety of numbers. Perhaps if he'd completed more than half of the necessary revolution, he'd have succeeded. As it was, he aligned himself perfectly with the ditch, and his first step met nothing but air. With the rooster spurring him like a bronc rider all the way down, Digs went off the plank to splat face-down in the few inches of stagnant water and oozy mud at the bottom of the ditch. As a crew, we paused our mirth just long enough to ascertain Digs' survival, then went back to laughing and offering implausible (but entertaining) suggestions for Digs' to consider.
Retreat under fire.
The rooster wasn't done, not by half. Having invested the effort to follow Digs into the ditch, the bird continued his assault on whatever part of Digs' anatomy it found handy. Digs pried himself out of the muck to find himself faced with two unattractive courses of action. One was to marinate in the nasty ditch and try to fend off the rooster until it grew tired of dominating him. The other was to let the rooster have its way and go to four-wheel drive to scramble up out of the ditch. Digs fortunately chose the latter, and as he emerged onto the road from the ditch the rooster broke off its attack to return to its yard, where it strutted back and forth at the end of the plank, like a feathered MMA champion version of a border guard.
Rooster 1, Digs 0.
No one would confess to being the unfeeling culprit who put a stuffed toy chicken at Digs' station on the plane the next day. Eventually the stitches came out, the hair the doc shaved to sew up Digs' lacerations finally grew back, his pride returned, and eventually Digs came to appreciate the humor of the encounter. We had to pass that yard several more times while we were there, and Digs always found it prudent to keep the rest of the crew between the yard and himself.
Was on det ops in a little place in Turkey, crew got put up in a little hotel. Town was a half-mile hike past a small farmhouse.
One morning we were strolling into town. One of the crew (a N' Yawka of Italian heritage we'll call 'Digs') spotted a rooster in the yard. 'Hey, lookut th' chicken!'
Meh.
For some unfathomable reason, Digs headed toward the plank that bridged the steep wet ditch between the yard and the road. As he did, the rooster, noticing a prospective intruder (and likely, a welcome distraction from his daily routine of scratching and strutting) approached the bridge from his side. Digs stopped short of the plank, and the chicken took up a post on the other side, feathers fluffed, neck stretched, wings half-extended. Eyes glittering.
A challenge Digs could not ignore.
Despite our urgings to let the challenge pass and resume our trek into town, and my admonitions that -- having grown up in Missouri farm country, with some experience in the nature, abilities, and body language of roosters -- Digs was likely underestimating the potential downside of his quest.
'Aw c'mon Ell Tee. It's just a chicken. What's it gonna do?'
Digs put one foot on the plank, and the rooster remained motionless. Another step was equally unanswered, although a discerning eye could detect a barely-perceptible coiling on the part of the rooster. Having ignored our continued warnings, two steps later, Digs reached the approximate mid-point of the plank. At that point a brown, red, and blue feather missile launched. Digs reacted just quickly enough to deflect the bird from his face and eyes, but not fast enough to keep it off of his head. With a quick aerial pirouette, the rooster pivoted to Digs' head, drumming its spurs into the top and side of Digs scalp.
Time to get away.
Arms flailing like a used-car dealer's air dancer, Digs tried to effect his escape back to the road and the safety of numbers. Perhaps if he'd completed more than half of the necessary revolution, he'd have succeeded. As it was, he aligned himself perfectly with the ditch, and his first step met nothing but air. With the rooster spurring him like a bronc rider all the way down, Digs went off the plank to splat face-down in the few inches of stagnant water and oozy mud at the bottom of the ditch. As a crew, we paused our mirth just long enough to ascertain Digs' survival, then went back to laughing and offering implausible (but entertaining) suggestions for Digs' to consider.
Retreat under fire.
The rooster wasn't done, not by half. Having invested the effort to follow Digs into the ditch, the bird continued his assault on whatever part of Digs' anatomy it found handy. Digs pried himself out of the muck to find himself faced with two unattractive courses of action. One was to marinate in the nasty ditch and try to fend off the rooster until it grew tired of dominating him. The other was to let the rooster have its way and go to four-wheel drive to scramble up out of the ditch. Digs fortunately chose the latter, and as he emerged onto the road from the ditch the rooster broke off its attack to return to its yard, where it strutted back and forth at the end of the plank, like a feathered MMA champion version of a border guard.
Rooster 1, Digs 0.
No one would confess to being the unfeeling culprit who put a stuffed toy chicken at Digs' station on the plane the next day. Eventually the stitches came out, the hair the doc shaved to sew up Digs' lacerations finally grew back, his pride returned, and eventually Digs came to appreciate the humor of the encounter. We had to pass that yard several more times while we were there, and Digs always found it prudent to keep the rest of the crew between the yard and himself.