Attack of the killer chicken!

One would think chickens are fairly innocuous creatures. Fluffy. Feathery. Slightly ridiculous.

Alas—not so. Not when you’ve got a bite mark on your hand that says otherwise. Yes, that is a chicken bite. And yes, I’m telling you this story even though it makes me feel a little ridiculous.

My chicken coop has a bit of fancy engineering to it (if I do say so myself). The nest boxes extend from the back wall of the barn, fitting snugly into a custom opening so I can collect eggs from the comfort of the barn. No more trudging through snow, mud, or wind that feels like it's trying to skin your eyebrows off. Just reach in, grab the egg, head to the house like the clever farm woman I am.

There's also a small door for slipping in food and water—just another stroke of genius. It’s efficient. It’s tidy. It’s... almost foolproof.

Now, about the bite.

The back of the nest boxes has a hinged door I can open to check for eggs, and it also blocks chickens from sneaking into the barn itself. Most mornings, if a hen’s roosting in the nest box, she’s facing away from me, head pointed toward the coop. That means I can just slide my hand under her fluffy backside, retrieve the egg, and no one’s the wiser.

But not this morning.

This morning, one of my darling feathered freeloaders was facing the other way. Which means when I opened the box, she was staring directly into my soul.

Now, did I stop and think about that? Did I pause for even a second to consider the risk of reaching under the business end of a broody hen? Of course not. I just reached in like it was any other day—straight for the egg that was clearly under her beak.

And that, dear reader, is where things took a turn. I’ll spare you the full play-by-play of the ensuing battle. Let’s just say I got the egg, she got my hand, and I walked away with a peck-shaped reminder that chickens may be small, but their tempers are not.

She sat there like a smug little velociraptor. I left with wounded pride, a dent in my dignity, and the distinct feeling that I’d just lost an argument with a creature whose brain is roughly the size of a lima bean. But hey, I won. Sort of. I got the egg, she got a chunk of my pride, and we’re both still giving each other the stink eye.

Moral of the story? When dealing with chickens, always approach from the back. Or better yet—bring snacks and negotiate.