Living Metaphors

I’m not a rooster.

My rooster attacked me a week ago. He’d bumped my legs before. Then one morning, he pecked at my legs as I was leaving the penned chicken yard

. The next morning, he was waiting for me.

I closed the gate of the chicken yard behind me and opened the coop to let out the chickens, same as every morning. Instead of leading the band of hens out to their fenced yard, he flew out and attacked my legs. And planted himself in front of the gate, my exit. I yelled and kicked at him and finally managed to work my way around him and out of the gate, putting a fence between us. I came away with a bruise, several peck marks and fear of an animal we hatched last year.

I looked up other people’s stories.

Roosters attacking women turned out to be more common than I expected. I found lots of tips, like running at him or unfurling an umbrella at him, all of which would convince him that I’m the dominant rooster.

And yes, that would hold him at bay for a while. But If I’m the dominant rooster, he’s going to want a rematch. To me, the trick is to win on my terms. 

I’m not a rooster.

Now as it happens, I work with somebody who is openly hostile to me. She only acts this way with me. I think she has mental problems, and I try not to engage in wars with her. But I get tired of being the adult.

I’m also a writer. And as a writer, I know a metaphor when I see one. One aspect of life stands in for many. And this rooster attack was fresh in my mind.

So last time she did something to provoke me, I stepped back and remembered that I wasn’t a rooster. I didn’t engage, didn’t attack back. I whispered that I felt sorry for her. We work in an open kitchen, and I don’t think anyone knew I said anything at all.

I earned three days of peace. It won’t last. Mental issues don’t clear themselves with a gentle reminder that one is acting pathetic. But I stayed true to myself. 

Because I am not a rooster.