by Anisha Mascarenhas
I’ve lived long enough to see many humans come and go. They build their fences, wave their sticks, and believe they’re in charge. But we hens remember.
My great-grandmother used to say, “If it runs toward you waving a stick, run faster. If it laughs, peck its toes.” It sounded silly when I was young, but I learned the truth of it one summer evening.
I knew the boy would come again. He always did — loud, clumsy, and overconfident. The first few times, we’d let it go. A bit of exercise never hurt anyone, and it was funny watching him trip over his own feet. But that evening, I’d had enough.
He came charging through the yard, flapping his arms like a half-grown rooster, eyes fixed on us as if we were prizes to be caught. The others scattered, squawking and flustering as usual. I stayed still and glared.
He didn’t take the hint.
So, I turned. I squared my wings, puffed up my chest, and gave my fiercest war cry, a squawk so sharp it startled the old man on the porch. And then I ran. Straight for the boy.
He screamed. Oh, he screeched. I chased him halfway across the yard until he realized who really ruled this place. The old man nodded from his chair, the kind of nod that says, “She warned you.”
After that, the boy didn’t come around much. When he did, he kept his distance, pretending to toss us feed like he was being generous. I could still see the flicker of fear in his eyes.
Sometimes, at sunset, I’d catch him watching from the fence. Maybe he was plotting revenge. Maybe he just remembered.
They say humans are at the top of the food chain. But I’ve seen enough to know better.
Out here, it’s simple: every few years, another foolish child tries to chase a chicken. And every few years, one of us teaches them why that’s a mistake.
Anisha Mascarenhas writes for fun. She tends to overthink tiny details and exaggerate their meaning in life. Other than that quirk, she’s mostly normal — whatever that means.