George

13th July 2016

Waking up with the sun on a Saturday was always the way for Riley and her Dad. This Saturday was no different. Both father and daughter out of bed to eavesdrop on the chattering early birds; and to see the blue skies warming up for the day ahead. One hundred charming farm acres and the promise of fresh, poached eggs on buttered toast is sure to entice even the laziest out of a Saturday sleep-in.

“Morning, darling girl,” said Dad as he gathered the necessary saucepan and white vinegar. The thick slices of white bread waited to be toasted; the coffee was brewing in the plunger; and Riley was eager to break her fast. She knew the routine. Get three eggs out the fridge with care so not to drop them: two eggs for Dad in her right hand, and one egg for herself in the left. One time Riley tried carrying two in her left hand, and one in her right: the floor enjoyed those eggs more than them. They ate cornflakes that day.

“Don’t forget the butter,” Dad reminded. Riley pulled the fridge door open and stood on her wooden stool to reach the top shelf. She grabbed the butter and sat it on the kitchen bench. That was done. Now, the eggs… Where were the eggs?

“Dad, where are the eggs?” Riley asked, scanning the top shelf, and then the middle shelf, and then the bottom. She even checked the fruit and veg draw, but still no eggs.

“Oh, I forgot to collect them yesterday,” he replied. “Would you mind getting them, chook?”

Would Riley mind getting them? She didn’t know. She knew that being a whole seven years old meant she was grown-up enough to collect the eggs by herself. She also knew that her tummy wanted those gooey eggs, really very badly. But the thing was. Well, not so much a thing, more of a cockerel. A cockerel called George.

George is a rooster. He’s also a menace. He’s also orange, fluffy, and a little over half a foot tall. Riley wasn’t sure what happened to George as a chick but she’s convinced it must have been traumatic: traumatic enough for him to not like anybody or anything. At Riley’s sixth birthday party, George rounded up three of Riley’s friends and held them hostage in the far corner of the house yard. There was this other time when Riley saw George attacking a tree. Now, either the tree said something very offensive, or George is insane. Riley is also convinced of the latter.

“Okay,” Riley peeped to Dad.

She was so looking forward to a quiet Saturday after a tremendous week at school. Instead she’d enlisted in the arduous task of battling a rooster with little man syndrome. But if her Dad had taught her anything; it was how to take responsibility, and honour her commitments. She’d committed to collecting the eggs, so collecting the eggs she must.

The beauty of the day was such an ironic setting for such a trialing mission. Riley made her way to the back sliding door and slipped on her pink, muddy crocs. Not the most protective footwear, but they had to do. Dad had already started boiling the water on the stove; and Riley’s, more durable, gumboots were at the front door. No time to get them.

“Come on, Ralph,” Riley summoned her faithful doggy sidekick, and the two determinedly marched their way towards the battleground: the chicken coop. Unlike Riley’s morale, which refused to break, sticks and leaves crunched under her feet. Riley and Ralph edged closer and closer to the hen home. A hand-painted sign hung over the chicken mesh. ”Cluckingham Palace” was what Riley’s Granddad had dubbed the coop. You’d think George would show a little more respect to the humans who, so lovingly, crafted a roof over his head. But no. Riley and Ralph stood at the door; boldly terrified of him and what he may do. The smell of chicken poo and the faint sense of dread wafted through the air.

“Say a quick prayer with me, Ralph?” Riley asked of the retriever. He sat down and murmured in agreement. “Dear Jesus, as we walk through the valley of Cluckingham, may we fear no George. Please carry us safely through the fight, and, God willing, help us to get those eggs safely home.” They stood there. Breath baited. Riley preemptively raised her hand to the latch and twisted it loose. “Amen.”

The door opened and she staggered back. Pyoo! Feathers and chicken stench blasted at their faces. The warriors clenched their eyes tight and pinched their noses in defense. Three long seconds passed and, through watery eyeballs, they adapted to their hostile surroundings. The initial assault was over.

Riley took a step into enemy territory and, as soon as she did, a Silky charged towards her head. There were Bantams, Hamburgs and Isa Browns. There were Pekins, Rhode Island Reds and Croads. There was even a Khaki Campbell duck. The capons flapped, they cackled, they squawked. By the racket, you’d think they were all egg-bound and underfed. Excited by the calamity, Ralph went crazy and barked like mad. He looked at Riley as if to say: “I’ve got this.” And with that, he chased the chickens, and one duck, down to the back paddock. Woofing, wailing and snapping at tail feathers, he galloped after the defeated army of fowls.

Alone Riley stood in the quiet and the smelly. She crept towards the nesting boxes. But where was George? Was he with the rest of the flock? Had Ralph successfully fended him away? He must have because there was no visible, or audible, sign of him. Closer, and closer she crawled.

And there they were.

The eggs.

Riley salivated like a hungry goanna. There they were; right in front of her. She formed a pouch with her pajama shirt and, with no sign of a rooster, very gently tucked the eggs away. This was much easier than she’d anticipated. Where was the high-speed chase? Where was the dramatic orchestrated, war appropriate soundtrack? Where was the part where she could heroically call out “Go on without me!” to Ralph? The anticlimax left her a little deflated; but she was proud nonetheless. With the eggs safely hidden, she carefully exited the coop and made towards the house.

And there he squarely stood. Making his presence known. Right between Riley and the house, George threateningly stared her dead in the eyes.

Riley’s eyes nervously darted around looking for Ralph; but he was long gone in pursuit of the other chickens. George puffed out his breast and clawed at the ground. It was a Mexican standoff and there was only one thing that could be done. Riley clutched her pouch full of eggs. Gulped. And ran.

He crowed like a bugle and George was on Riley’s case. He dashed towards her and jumped up at her legs. Riley’s little athletics training had prepared her for this exact moment. She dodged and she sprinted; all the while George striking out at her legs with downy spurs. And in a moment of perfect persecution, he pierced Riley’s bare calf. My word, it hurt! She kicked him off which resulted in George doing a backwards somersault mid air. Driven by pure testosterone, George launched back at Riley, grabbed hold of her crocs and clung on. He pecked at Riley’s ankles until they were raw. Riley screamed and jumped up and down trying to rid herself of the little cockhead. But George was relentless. He would not let go, which left Riley with only one option. She would have to drop an egg bomb. She’d collected five eggs and figured she could only spare two; otherwise her efforts would be pointless, and she’d be eating soggy cornflakes. She picked an egg from her pajama pouch, and kissed it for luck. Just as she did, George jumped up at her shorts and startled Riley into dropping the egg.

“Damn it, George!” That was it. That was the last straw. And you could tell because Riley never ever said ‘damn’. She picked out another egg, aimed, and flung it right at George’s face. The egg exploded; George was blinded in a sulfurous haze; he, consequently, lost his grip; and tumbled to the ground. “Rooster down!” cried Riley, and she ran like hell towards the back sliding door.

Her ankles were red, her pajama shorts yolky, and her leg was dripping with blood. These wounds left Riley with a beaming esteem and the knowledge that she was, indeed, a champion rooster wrangler. Not bothering to kick off her pink, muddy crocs, Riley bolted into the kitchen and bestowed the final three perfect eggs upon her Dad.

“I did it,” Riley panted.