Life feels sweet after narrowly escaping three dangerous genetic relatives of Tyrannosaurus rex, a.k.a. "chickens" in modern parlance, at Salem's Minto Brown Island Park today.
I'll share some photos of the attack, but these only reflect the objective state of the photons that made it into my iPhone's camera lens. My intuitive life-loving emotional mind saw these vicious animals differently.
As miniature Velociraptors.
After all, I had no idea if they'd gone completely feral, returning to the primitive instincts of their dinosaur ancestry.
In case other people who use the rural'ish Minto Brown trails come across these monsters, I'll describe the birds' method of attack.
I was riding my yellow Streetstrider outdoor elliptical bike along the paved trail that parallels Homestead Road. I'm pretty sure the chickens' plan was to hide in the brush on the right side of the trail, then jump (or fly?) out, surprising their human prey.
But at least one of them jumped the gun, and I was able to see the chickens before they had a chance to flutter up around my head and peck my eyeballs out.
Or whatever... I'm not an expert in chicken attacks, having only this single horrifying experience to inform my knowledge of how they go about their life-destroying business.
As you can see from the photo above, the chickens feigned innocence once I stopped my bike to figure out how I was going to live another day. Yes, they looked tame enough, but this is exactly how I would expect small feral killing machines to have adapted to existence in the wild.
Lull their intended victim into complacency -- Hey, we're just tame chickens who have wandered off from the roost, nothing to worry about here, bend down and give us a pat -- so they can peck their prey's freaking eyes out!
I wasn't about to fall for that ruse.
Especially after I saw one of them heading directly for my leg, undoubtedly planning to slice my achilles tendon in half with its beak, forestalling an escape on my bike, while the other two started walking around to my blind side in a classic maneuver I've seen wild wolf packs perform on National Geographic animal shows.
I decided it was best to keep my focus on the two chickens who seemed to pose the greatest threat. Remembering the advice of signs put up at Minto Brown when a cougar has been sighted in the area, I stood as tall as possible, tried to look confident, and raised my arms (easy, since they were holding my iPhone).
In the end, as should be obvious, since I'm alive to write this blog post, I survived.
I was able to pedal off -- well, my bike doesn't have pedals, so I ellipticaled my way off -- grateful as the fearsome clucking noises the beasts had been making receded into the distance.
Once I got what seemed to be a safe distance away, I realized that my mouth was dry from fear and trembling. I paused to eat some blackberries. Maybe it was the wind blowing a creaking tree branch, but I was sure I heard a nearby chicken screech.
Had they followed me? Was the feral chicken pack planning another attack? I can't be sure. All I know is that those blackberries tasted marvelously sweet.
A brush with death will do that -- make life seem much more vibrant.
You would probably be diagnosed with some post-traumatic stress... hm maybe a movie. Seeing "The Birds" at too tender an age comes to mind. In one scene "Lydia (Jessica Tandy) visits a neighboring farmer to discuss the unusual behavior of their chickens. She discovers his eyeless corpse." The linkage with your sudden fear that they could "peck their prey's freaking eyes out" is significant. Maybe you were hushed and told to get back to bed without another "peep" after a subsequent nightmare. Or suffered a schoolyard bully flapping his arms and calling you a "chicken" Or... never mind. I'm too chicken to make suggestions among the churchless... people have been tarred and feathered here for less.
Posted by: Dungeness | August 15, 2015 at 02:32 AM
Dungeness, I think you're on to something here. I do remember seeing "The Birds." But I'd forgotten about that eyeless scene, which must be due to post-traumatic stress, now much exacerbated by the chicken attack..
Seems like I would have a good legal case against the City of Salem for not adequately securing a city park against a feral chicken invasion, thereby leading to severe psychological pain and distress for a regular park user, namely, ME.
Not sure what adequate compensation to me would be. Maybe ten million dollars? In that ballpark, at least. I'd settle for five million, probably. Waiting for a call from your legal staff, City of Salem! Let's work out a settlement.
Posted by: Brian Hines | August 15, 2015 at 09:26 AM
Now, now, there is no such thing as a chicken that becomes feral. There are wild (feral) chickens, but not in Oregon. These poor girls were probably released in he park by someone who did not want to take care of them anymore. They will most certainly end up as a good meal for a coyote or feral cat before long. Domesticated chicken are friendly and they wanted to be friends with you. They probably hoped you would have some food for them. They are pretty much defenseless in the wild. They can't even fly well enough to get up in a tree. Very sad.
Posted by: Jim Scheppke | August 15, 2015 at 10:16 AM
Jim, WHAT?! You're telling me that what I assumed were fierce killing machines actually were harmless tame chickens?
Well, maybe...
I still like the theory that these dinosaur descendants were setting me up for a nasty attack, which I managed to foil.
I realize that most people view chickens as adorable animals. Though I admit I haven't had much experience with them, I see them as akin to every cat I've ever owned -- or, rather, been owned by.
The animal seems all tame and friendly. Then in an instant it can turn on you, ripping flesh with its claws and teeth. I'd say to my cat, "Hey, what did I do?!"
The cat would wordlessly reply, "Nothing. I just exercised my existential freedom to scratch and bite you because I revel in senseless absurdity. Such is life..."
For me, owning a cat was like having a furry Sartre that purrs around the house. Except I doubt that Sartre ever drew blood.
Posted by: Brian Hines | August 15, 2015 at 10:38 AM
I enjoyed this story greatly. 10/10 would die from chickens again.
Posted by: Bill Loothe J.J (Ant) | December 24, 2016 at 03:16 PM