A Devil In Feathers

Memories of a Valley Boy

He was a tyrant with a razor beak and a Napoleon complex; a strutting feathered fascist – and he almost killed me.

My bride, Janice, and I lived on Bethel Island, hidden in the Delta where the Sacramento and San Joaquin rivers wound like ancient serpents through the marshlands. We lived in a lopsided old shack below the levee, on rich bottom land reclaimed in the 1890’s. Our house crouched below the water level of Taylor Slough. We could walk up to our rickety dock on the water. It was a place where fog could blind you and silence sometimes hung heavy in the air.

Janice picked up some free chicks at the feed store. She placed a cute jumble of peeping yellow fuzzies in a cardboard box full of shredded newspaper and fed them. Soon we had 5 hens and a rooster free-ranging in the garden. They grew fast and nested under the back shed at night. Predators got a few of the hens and I wasn’t about to build chicken infrastructure, so Jan worked a deal with a neighbor to trade live chickens for dressed-out rabbits.

Soon we were down to one lone survivor, a rooster that strutted the yard like he owned the place. We nick-named him Napoleon. I was all for trading him out for rabbit meat, but Napoleon couldn't be caught. Chasing him around the yard was a fool's errand. I was a dumb city kid. I tried to catch him with a box and stick trap like I'd seen in cartoons. It didn’t work. I gave up chasing him.

But Napoleon declared vendetta.

Napoleon appeared below my bedroom window, a devil in feathers, screeching like a demented alarm clock. I’d wake at 2, 3, and 4 in the morning. The infernal racket ricocheted through my skull. Sleep vanished. I began waking up when he wasn't there; my ears tuned, seething, furious, and tortured by insomnia. Some nights I’d chase him around the house, skidding over damp grass on bare feet, swearing in frustration as he escaped cackling under the shed.

Enough was enough. I loaded my 30-06 Springfield rifle, given to me long ago by my Uncle Tom. The kick was brutal, every time I shot the rifle my shoulder would turn black-and-blue. I was going to finish that damn bird. Blow him up. That night I fell asleep with the loaded rifle leaning by the door.

Just before dawn, Satan started his infernal crowing. I jumped out of bed, stark naked, and stumbled outside into a dense fog. Clutching my rifle, I chased the crowing bird around the cabin.

Suddenly Napoleon stopped. He took a stand. There he was. Head held high, wing feathers puffed, beady eyes glinting in the pre-dawn light. He mocked me. It was man against bird, on a battlefield of damp grass as grey dawn lit the scene.

Napoleon crowed again. We locked eyes. I took aim. I swear, that chicken was daring me. He was begging for it. My finger tightened on the trigger, and I aimed center mass at his smug chest. One squeeze, and ... the fog thinned revealing the faint outline of a long propane tank.

The bullet passed through the bird and hit the tank. Flames. A blinding flash of orange and red. The concussion swallowed everything. The cabin splintered. Shrapnel sliced the air. Janice and I were shredded ragdolls and swallowed by fire and chaos. Thick black smoke blew across Bethel Island.

... Sick and shaking I realized what I'd almost done.

Napoleon stood there in front of our propane tank, cocky as always. Ready to die. He stalked away. Leaving me with nothing but a bruised ego.

I lost a battle of wits with a bird.

Eventually, after a desperate struggle in a closed space, I trapped the rooster in our shed. He pecked furiously as I held him tight under one arm. I held him down gently. He stilled as I drew a line in the dirt outside the shed. I hypnotized him. It’s called tonic immobility. He froze. Neck extended. One easy chop and he’d be gone.

I couldn’t do it. I stuffed Napoleon in a cat carrier and traded him to the rancher down the road for rabbit meat. A week later I learned he’d escaped.

So far Napoleon has not returned.