When I told her the story, smirking about how I had outsmarted Charley, Gram pointed out to me that roosters can fly into trees. Fortunately for me, Charley apparently hadn’t thought of that either. He was content to strut up and down in front of my escape route, and when he was satisfied he was still top chicken, slowly swaggered back toward his domain.
By that time, I was cold, hungry and humiliated that I had been treed by a rooster. So, I climbed down and grabbed a white shirt off the clothesline, then ran at him, yelling and brandishing my weapon of deadly force. He was so shocked that the quivering mass of human he’d just taught a lesson to was counterattacking, he lost his head and ran toward the one place, I suppose, he felt was safe. In his panic, though, he miscalculated the width of the henhouse doorway, and caught his wing on his way through. He flipped head over heals, rolled all the way across the floor, and finally landed on his back next to a hen’s nest. Still terror-stricken when I came in waving my shirt, he fluttered himself upright, and cowered behind one of his hens.