The first encounter I recall having with vicious Mother Nature is vividly, painfully pressed into my brain. My dad is this huggable lug of a man who has an unashamed fetish for birds. We have chickens in my garage at this very moment. I live in a Chicago suburb so I can safely say we are the only family within a fifteen mile radius that has a chirping garage. We actually raised a peacock in my garage. That garage has seen a lot less vehicles and a lot more poultry than should be allowed.
When I was about three years old my family lived right outside of New Orleans, a similar setting to where we live now. My dad’s fierce love of flying animals was stronger than ever. Macaws, doves, pigeons, cocktails, parrots; you name it, we had it in our backyard. Thinking back we probably could have opened up the Walker Family Bird Petting Farm for a little extra cash.
Our birds were all caged except our chickens. There was a specific rooster who was very territorial, I guess you could call it that, or you could just say he hated my bald little Valerie self and wanted to peck my eyes out. I toddled my chubby little legs outside one day, unaccompanied by my mother, and approached the temperamental rooster. I reached my stubby finger out to make a friend and the demon rooster took advantage of my kind heart and attacked me. Even now I have a very low tolerance for pain-like, I will sub tweet angry things for two days after a toe stubbing incident- so I ran into my house weeping like- well, like a three year old. Mother dearest was not pleased. She grabbed the broom from the kitchen and stormed outside, hitting the defenseless rooster until he was unresponsive. “Unresponsive” is my delicate way of saying dead. He was dead. She killed him. This is the reason I know I would have a good chance of surviving if the United States collapses and the Hunger Games become an actual thing. Thanks for the homicidal genes, mom.