His name was Harry. He was gorgeous. He had gold, dark brown, and burnished brown-red, feathers coming out of the top of his head like a fountain. (I saw a hairdo similar at Staples the other day, only it was dark brown hair with fountains of wavy white hair cascading out of the top.) I thought of Harry.

Now Harry was a Polish rooster. For those of you who don’t know about Polish Chickens, they are very pretty. I saw them at a neighbor’s one time and decided to get a few. But there is always a “snake in the garden.” In this case, it was a horn.

Polish roosters grow long, sharp horns on the insides of their legs. About 1.5 inches long. As he got older, Harry thought he was a pretty cool rooster, and king of the roost, of course.

One day, as I entered the pen with a pail of feed, he attacked my head. One moment he was in front of me on the ground, and the next he was in my face, bringing both horned legs ferociously and repetitively against my head, like someone boxing my ears. Thank goodness the horns beat into my head behind my ears and not in my ears!

After that, Harry threatened me every time I entered the pen. A few weeks later, we were going on vacation, leaving a thirteen-year-old neighbor girl in charge of the chickens. Harry had become a dangerous little guy.

Then Harry lost his head. I mean literally. It was a sad day, but I had grown up on a farm and knew how to run a guillotine.

By the time I plucked and fried Harry, I had a stomachache. I’d liked the little terror. But, I made a full supper of potatoes and vegetables, and we sat down to eat. Then Harry had his revenge.