“Charlie, Charlie, come quick. Rocky chewed up our little Rhode Island Red and she’s still alive. Poor little thing.” I watched as my mom carefully cleaned the chicken’s breast, put the yanked out and broken off feathers next to her, and wiped some thick ointment all over the hen’s side. That hen let my mom do anything at all to her, not making a ‘peep’. Mom was mutterin' and cussin' as she worked on the injured chicken.

“That damn dog. Rocky’s a handful. Every day it’s something. Last night at mid-night we bolted out of bed hearin’ some god-awful sounds from the chickens ‘cause that hard headed, defiant Airedale lit out and went clean through the coop to catch a sneaky fox. Next day he tore through the rabbit hutch, too lazy to run around it. Crazy dog was after a coon then.” Mom was talking to herself.

My dad came running into the house, “What’s up Martha?”

My mother wiped her hands on a towel, turned around and looked at dad. Her face was bright red.

Dad moved back three whole steps. That was always a bad sign.

“Both of you go out and fetch this baby’s eggs. We got to set her up near the kitchen stove and keep her warm ‘til she heals. She has to sit on those eggs ‘til they’re hatched and the chicks are on their own. It’ll keep her busy. She won’t have time to think of the chomped up dog day she had. Damn that Rocky.”

Dad and I lit out of there like our pants were aflame.

Well, mom set up a box with some chicken scratch, grass, a dish of water and one of her cleaning rags for the chicken to lay on in comfort while she sat on her eggs and healed.

Every day the hen improved. One morning I watched as the baby chicks broke through their shells. All was getting back to normal.  In a couple of weeks mom took the hen back to the coop along with her babies. She was doin’ fine. Recouped and herded her brood non-stop all day long. Or so it seemed.

One afternoon I looked out and saw Rocky down on the ground facing that wonderful hen. She was squawking and screaming at him, Her beak was inches from Rocky’s muzzle not moving away. Eye to eye she was facing the accused chicken tormentor and bully that tore into her. Then I noticed all her little baby chicks were neatly lined up on one side of Rocky’s snout, almost military marching style. While the hen stared at Rocky, every single baby chick marched up, across and down that dogs’ schnoz while Rocky stayed motionless. He stared at that hen knowing full well he dare not move a muscle. God only knows what would have happened if he did. Durn sure, he wasn’t about to play that card.

I was around eight years old back then and knew that hen had been preparing her young-uns from day one to march across Rocky’s nose. I couldn’t believe how smart that chicken was and knew she was never goin’ into any stew pot.

Rocky let that hen completely alone after that. He dared not even look her way. His head would snap back if he accidently moved it in her direction. She noticed everything. He never touched a chicken again. That hen watched his every move for the rest of her ten years. Her young-uns carried on the job.

Now, that’s hen-pecked.