It may seem a small thing having a grown rooster attack you in Maybeury, West Virginia, but I was only five, a scrawny, skinny kid with bad posture and suspenders when that red headed cock-a-doodle-do dropped out of a tree in our back yard and tried to kill me. I didn’t even know that he was in the tree, my favorite tree for climbing, which was disheartening, the worst kind of fowl play. I heroically fought him off and ran for the house, but he caught me and flogged my face again and again. I think he bit me too. There were two roosters I concluded. No, three. Which explains why I did not outrun him, them, at first. They, maybe four of them by the time I reached the house, ganged up on me and ransacked my peace of mind. Since this was around 1949, there were no cell phones to record my ordeal. This trauma unleashed a fear of roosters in me that I harbor to this day. Roosters are butt ugly and don’t have an ounce of compassion.
The scariest episode of my 30 years in the FBI was walking through a backyard full of chickens and an ornery looking rooster in order to arrest a fugitive in Sterling, Colorado, but that’s another story.