The Cheese Stick

Reader Contribution by Jacqueline Wilt, R.N. and C.E.M.T.
Published on October 8, 2014
1 / 3
2 / 3
3 / 3

Growing up, we had a flock of chickens on our farm. They supplied us with fresh eggs and meat. I loved those chickens. Except one. His name was Cheese. He was a huge white Leghorn rooster. He hated me, and I swear he had 6-inch-long spurs on his long yellow legs. The feeling was mutual.

As a little girl, one of my chores was to gather the eggs. I would go into the henhouse and stand on tippy-toe to reach up into the long row of nesting boxes to get the eggs. All the while I had to look over my shoulder with increasing frequency as Cheese circled and sized me up. As soon as he thought my guard was sufficiently down, he would charge me! Flapping wings, a screeching crow, and claws were all a blur as I would scream and run out of the henhouse. After swallowing my heart back down into my chest, the next several minutes were spent watching to see if the devil-spawn would exit the henhouse so I could sneak back in to finish my chore. It was an on-going battle.

Cheese looked like this:

Online Store Logo
Need Help? Call 1-866-803-7096