I’m beginning to grow tired of being attacked by my own birds.  Yes, birds.  Now that the lady goose is quasi-sitting on her eggs, mr. goose has turned into quite the territorial little monster.  You know it’s gotten out of control when your toddler scolds “No goose, don’t bite mama.”

Every night when I go to lock up the ducks, who is there to greet me but captain cranky beak, honking and charging me.  On more then one occasion I’ve had to push him back (it wasn’t a kick per say, more of a shove using a boot-clad foot).  Will instead grabs his neck when the bird lunges in for the strike, which seems to work better as the goose now appears to have a distant respect for my husband, all while he chases my car down the driveway when I leave for work each morning.  I didn’t expect my relationship with poultry to be so complicated.

On top of that, Tom Waits (our rooster) has taken to attacking me and the toddler.  Instead of biting, he prefers to jump at my legs, talons first.  Thank goodness for wellies that go all the way up to my knees.  I used to let Alston join me in the coop while I collected eggs, as he loved scooping up scratch feed from the barrel and tossing it on the ground, only to watch to chickens chase down every grain of corn.  That all ended the day Tom decided to pick a fight with a two and a half year old by landing on his shoulders, leaving claw marks that made it through the boy’s coat.  I don’t care how pretty his feathers are, we are no longer friends.

I know it’s an instinct thing, and it will hopefully embolden these males to protect their females here on the farm, but dude, I feed you.  And when I’m not feeding you, I’m working to make the money to buy your feed.  All I’m asking is to not get attacked in my own yard.