 "Photo: Scott S. Hamrick/MCT")
In the end, what really got me was that it had been a rooster. If only it were a wild boar, some ferocious Rottweiler or even a large fox, I might have been able to retain my pride. My screaming retreat might have been less pathetic. And the fact that she had witnessed my humiliation only made it worse.
As a young man (really young, I was nine) I harbored the same insecurities, the same fear of humiliation that all boys feel, when nervously trying to gain the admiration of a young woman. In my pre-pubescent state, it was only natural for me to anticipate certain obstacles to prevent me from achieving that end. Usually they come in the form of an older boy, who whisks away the object of your affection on his shiny new Vespa, or a premature onslaught of acne where even Quasimodo would shiver in fright if he should ever be so unfortunate as to catch a glimpse of your freakish visage. These are the normal hurdles for young wannabe Lotharios.
But a rooster?
The German expression, “der Hahn im Korb,” translates roughly to “the cock of the walk” but can also be used in reference to a male who is greatly outnumbered by the opposite sex, often in a familial context. It was my handle that summer when I visited my uncle’s farm in the Austrian state of Carinthia. As an only child, my uncle’s four children were the closest thing I had in the way of siblings and they were all girls. The mild sense of inferiority I felt at being the youngest member of this bucolic little clan was mitigated by the fact that I loved being the man.
I remember going to see the chickens with Waltraud, the always cheerful, burly woman who worked on the farm as a cook and part-time nanny. She led me into a small room at the back of the hen house, in which a giant lamp, suspended from the ceiling and hovering less than a foot from the floor, provided light and warmth for about thirty chicks milling about on a bed of straw. One bird stood out from the chirping huddle. It was slightly bigger, had darker feathers, and a pulpy little flesh helmet that signified the comb had begun to develop. That one was the rooster. I felt a strange affinity for this fledging cock. The minority status of our gender marked us both as special.
Leaving the coop that day, I saw the fully-grown version of my feathery little counterpart, promenading on the far side of the enclosure. He was a large bird with jet-black feathers and giant talons, which dug into the ground when he strutted about his hen harem, kicking up dirt as he passed.
One of the advantages of having many female cousins is that, with any luck, they are likely to have many female friends, and so it was that I came to meet Stephanie. A close friend of my youngest cousin, I’d actually met her the summer previous when I’d stayed at her family’s lake house on the Ossiacher See. Stephanie was athletically built, shorthaired, and olive complexioned, her skin always radiating with a healthy tan. Six months my senior, Stephanie was taller than I was, and summer days of rigorous rowing on the lake had also made her stronger. Thus, I’d felt slightly emasculated in her presence, a feeling that was only amplified by her forthrightness, typical in Austrian country girls, which made my more reserved demeanor seem mildly pathetic.
Strangely, when I invited Stephanie to come explore the chicken coop with me that day, I had no intention of proving my valor. No, I’d merely wanted to show her the chicks, assuming that in the presence of such cuteness all young girls must become weak. Not that I would have had any idea on how to capitalize on this vulnerability, but it pleased me to think that I might be able to bring it about. Opening the latch to the door of the coop, I could feel Stephanie’s hot breath on my neck as she stood behind me, the downward slant of her exhalations betraying her slight advantage in height.
Only a few steps past the threshold, I suddenly heard a rapid-fire clucking sound, quickly increasing in volume. Casting my gaze in the direction of the noise, I saw the rooster rushing towards me, its fire-red comb waving menacingly like the plume of an advancing Medieval knight in a jousting tournament. As it reached me, it spread its wings, leapt and, briefly airborne, came at me feet first, eventually bringing its talons down into the exposed flesh just above my knees. Yelping like a puppy I fled, not even bothering to close the gate, a task that Stephanie took care of, amidst peals of laughter.
Having put what I believed to be a safe distance between myself and my avian attacker, I eventually fell down onto a bed of grass and felt my face grow hot with shame. Stephanie casually jogged up to ask if I was alright and, receiving an affirmative answer, continued on to the house to meet my cousins who were just returning from church. Panting on the ground, I briefly wondered if Stephanie had noticed the redness of my face. Then, as I wiped the blood from the wound above my knee, I forgot about Stephanie altogether. I knew only one thing. I wanted revenge on that bird.
Unlike impressing a young woman as a nine-year-old, getting vengeance on an incarcerated bird is fairly easy. When, in the days following my assault, I reflected on the way my nemesis promenaded around his domain, it struck me that the obvious weakness of a rooster is his pride. I needed to wound this pompous bird, as he had wounded me. Hearing him crow one morning, I suddenly knew how.
I had never been a stellar student in music class. I lacked the feel for rhythm and ear for pitch that are required of a singer. But as an imitator of animal noises, I was second to none. The rooster crow is rather simple; it consists of four harsh syllables summoned from the back of the throat, the last one being drawn out for a few seconds.
Armed with this knowledge, I positioned myself outside the chicken coop early one morning to face the enemy. As soon as his first cry obliterated the early morning serenity, I responded with a crowing of my own, making sure that mine exceeded his both in duration and volume. The cock, visibly perturbed, nervously flicked his head from side to side, searching for the perpetrator. Seconds later, he let out another, amplified version of his initial crowing, attempting to silence the mysterious challenger. Again I echoed his cry, this time causing him to attack an unfortunate hen, silently sitting nearby. His third cry was prefaced by a clawing of the ground with one of his talons, much like a bull preparing to charge an offending matador, and an accentuated arching of the neck as if to summon maximum crowing power. This resulted in an abnormally long cry, exceeding ten seconds, and hence longer than I’d ever heard a rooster crow theretofore. Hungrily accepting the challenge, I duly mimicked the cock’s pre-cry routine, shuffling my feet to ensure optimal footing, throwing back my head and sticking out my chest to get the most out of my nine-year-old lungs. My screeching retort lasted for about fifteen seconds, much to the consternation of the now frenzied bird.
So it went for a good part of the morning, with the rooster crowing and the imposter replying with a crow of his own. I knew it would be a long battle, but I was on summer vacation. I had all day. Then, after what seemed like many hours, the rooster’s replies began to come at greater and greater intervals and gradually sounded more like a timid shrieking, than the confidant screaming one would expect from the king of the coop. Sensing I had my rival on the ropes, I unleashed a devastating 25-second bellow that left me gasping for air. A minute passed without reply. After another minute, I realized none was coming. The exhausted bird was silenced. Vengeance was mine.
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