I was volun-told for my first paying job at the ripe old age of 11. It was dad’s doing. “Ward E,” he said, I’ve been talking with Mr. Cook, and he needs your help with the evening chores.” “What’s the evening chores?” I asked. “Feeding and watering the animals, and milking the cows. Don’t worry, it pays, a gallon of milk a day. Oh, and Ward E., it’s a big job, but I believe in you, you got this!”

So, every day, seven days a week, at precisely 5pm I’d grab a glass jar from the kitchen and head off down the street to do the evening chores. One hot summer day I noticed a barnyard cat stretched out long and lazy on the sunny side of the spruce tree, next to the south garden. What I didn’t notice was Little Dude following me. He was our little white mutt of a dog, and under strict orders from Mr. Cook, he was not supposed to be there. But Little Dude wasn’t what you’d call a well-behaved dog, he pretty much did whatever he wanted.

His bark gave him away, I looked back just in time to see that big old yellow tabby running full speed around the far side of the house with Little Dude hot on his tail. “Oh crap! Stupid dog!” I said out loud as I set the empty milk jar on the table by the backdoor. “I’d better go make sure that dang dog doesn’t kill that cat.” That’s when it happened. I didn’t see it, but heard it, and it caused me to freeze in my tracks. A scuffle, a hiss, a string of barks, the unmistakable screeching roar of a domestic barnyard cat, and finally a broken yelp.

“I’m too late, how am I going to explain this to Mrs. Cook? She loves those cats! Well, I guess I better go see what’s left of the cat,” I said to myself realizing my rescue had been downgraded to a recovery. But before I could move, everything changed again. There came Little Dude running back around the far side of the house as fast as he could, with the big old yellow tabby hot on his tail. I saw fear in Little Dude’s eyes, true fear for his life and all things good in his world. I laughed, “you got what you deserved!” as he ran for his life, and home.

I grabbed the milk bucket at the farmhouse and headed to the barn. I barely noticed the chickens scratching around in the barnyard, because they were always scratching around in the barnyard. I certainly didn’t notice the one not moving away. I was probably lost in thought, exploring the deep mysteries which capture the minds of 11-year old boys around the world. “What’s the difference between buggers, and snot?” I wondered, determined to find the answer.

While I was thinking that, the chicken who wasn’t moving away was working his way towards me. He was strutting a little, with his chest all puffed up. It turns out, he wasn’t a chicken at all, but a rooster. What he was thinking was something like, “Hey buddy! Yeah you! Who are you to be coming around here, into my barnyard?”

While he was thinking that, what I was thinking was, “Ohhhh, yeah,” as I examined my finger tip.

While I was thinking that, he was thinking, “Hey, you want me come over there and teach you a lesson about what happens to those I catch walking through my barnyard? One more step, I dare you!”

It was right about then when I thought, “AAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!” I came screaming back to the present with a roster hanging off my knee cap. He was squawking and screeching at the top of his little lungs, his wings were flapping a million miles an hour and feathers were flying everywhere! His spurs, fully exposed, were scratching my ankles. I did a bit of squawking and screeching myself as I performed a panic dance back to the farmhouse.

It was at that very moment I learned the true meaning of the pecking order in its rawest form and my place on it. I quivered with fear next to the house at the edge of the barnyard. Oh, how I wanted to join Little Dude and just high tail it back home as quickly as possible.

But I couldn’t. I had responsibilities. I had a problem. I had 3 horses, 5 pigs, and a herd of cows who needed feeding, and 3 of those cows needed milking. That stupid excuse of a rooster, who from that moment on I called Rocko, Rocko the Rooster, was staring me down with those beady little rooster eyes, and I swear he made an, “I’m watching you” motion with his fancy feathered wing.

I remember my dad saying, “You got this!” So, I reminded myself, “I got this,” and I searched for a solution. Not being one for confrontation, I devised a plan of least Rocko interaction. Thinking quickly, I dove across the driveway to Mrs. Cooks ’63 Impala. Being careful to keep the car between me and Rocko, I backed up all the way to the north garden where I disappeared into the tall corn. I traversed the cornfield over to the east pasture, jumped the fence, doubled back past the pigpen, through the corral, then into the barn from the back.

And that’s how it went for the next few weeks. I’d get to the house and plan my route to the barn based entirely on the whereabouts of that damned Rocko and his mangy gang of chickens.

One day as I stood at the edge of the barnyard contemplating my next move, I heard a familiar sound rattling up the drive. It was Mr. Cook, he was home early. I stood there as the rusty old blue Chevy truck sputtered to a stop at my feet. He motioned me to stay put as he climbed out and slammed the door shut with a rickety creek and dull thud. He skittered around the truck and up next to me. Now Mr. Cook was a small, kind man, who happened to talk just like Jimmy Stuart. For the young folks, Jimmy Stewart was an old-time movie actor who had a squeaky, high-pitched voice and talked with a lot of ums, awes, and broken pauses.

“Um, ah, well…, Ward E,” he said, “I ah, hear you’ve been having, ah, a little trouble with, ah…um, a rooster,”

Now, I hadn’t told anyone about the rooster situation. I could only imagine how entertaining I must have been to Mrs. Cook as she stood at the sink, doing the dishes and watching me out the back window. I’m sure I kept her laughing as I dodged from cars to tractors, hid behind trucks, slinked behind haystacks, hopped fences, and panicked if a chicken got too close.

I’m not sure what I expected, but whatever it was, it wasn’t what I happened. Mr. Cook commenced to tell me a story, in his Jimmy Stewart voice, “Now, ah, when I was around your age. Um… Ya see, we had this rooster, and… ah, oh boy he was a mean one. Ah… He would come at me like lighting, he’d scare me to death…”

He went on to tell me how his father taught him how to deal with the rooster by getting a walking stick; one that wasn’t too big ‘cause it had to be quick, and one that wasn’t too skinny ‘cause it had to be strong. He told me how he would carry the stick in one hand and the milk bucket in the other on his trek to the barn. He told me how he’d leave the stick at the barn door as he did his chores, then do the same as he marched back to the house.

He told me how his walking stick became a weapon of self-preservation whenever a rooster started strutting or getting too close. He told me, “It only took a couple of whacks before he got the message. Ah… you get it?” “Yeah, I get it” I said. “Good, it can be a scary thing, And Ward E. You got this!” he added. “Yeah, I got this,” I repeated. He turned and walked to the house, and I turned walked to the woodpile.

It’s funny, all that time I thought I was like Little Dude getting chased by the yellow tabby. But as it turns out, I was like the yellow tabby. I just needed to decide when enough was enough, but for some reason, I needed permission to do so. I’m proud to say, I eventually earned my place atop the pecking order of that barnyard, and it only took a couple of whacks.

Copyright © 2020 Ward E Wilson