The Rooster

One of the most intriguing students I have ever taught wrote one of the most powerful narratives I have ever read. Nicole was quiet, kind, artistic, and introspective. There always seemed to be something in her dark eyes. For one assignment, I like to think that she was able to identify, place, and confront a horrible period in her life in one essay. I truly hope she was able to find some peace in her own words.

Nicole D.
Personal Narrative Essay

The Bear and the Rooster

Generally, when someone asks you if you have any pets, they expect normal answers like dogs, cats, horses, guinea pigs, birds--things of that nature. When people asked the thirteen-year-old-me what I had for pets, I would proudly declare that I owned 25 pet chickens. And I loved them, each like a close friend to me. I was a rather lonely child. My favorite, however, was a rooster named Ferdie. I could do anything to this bird; I carried him around like a baby, gave him ‘pedicures’, cuddled him, I even spent hours sitting outside teaching him how to crow. At the same time I had the chickens, I also had to deal with its predators. The most prominent being a monstrous, angry bear. He had an irrational temper, out of nowhere he would come in roaring and snarling, tearing up the yard in grizzly, animalistic rage for no reason known to us.

 Ferdie did not like the bear, so whenever it came lumbering around, Ferdie would try and attack him, protecting the flock. I always smiled at this, it was like we had our own bodyguard, me and the hens. Our own valiant knight, trying to keep the evil at bay. But the bear only grew angrier, hostile, hating Ferdie. And it held onto grudges with an iron grip.

But bad things happen.

Sometimes, it just cannot be helped, no matter what you do, say, or feel.

Every other weekend, I would go to my dad’s house for a visit. One summer while at my dad’s house, I woke up on a Sunday with a horrible, sinking feeling. I tried to ignore it, but fear prickled up my spine and my whole body felt hollow. I knew what this feeling meant, and that is what scared me the most. In the past, I would get feelings like this, and often when I’d come home, something was dead.

I prayed for this just to be another false alarm, for it to be nothing at all, but the feeling nagged on. My mind kept going back to the bear. The bear was home, and I was not.
        Everything was peaceful as my dad drove his van up my winding driveway. I listened to the distant chuckle of birds in the trees, breathed deep the scent of the woods. The sun felt nice against my skin and I thought, briefly, that everything was fine. That is, until I saw it. The bear. It was waiting for my return, looking straight at me. As I said my goodbyes and walked up the porch stairs, my blood went cold.

“Something had gotten Ferdie. I had to,” was all the bear said; the gun still in his grip.

 I stared up at the bear in disbelief, knowing his words were a lie. I was numb, angry, thinking how perfectly this action portrayed the bear. I shoved past him without any hint of sorrow. I would grieve for my stupid chicken alone. I went in my room and cried for Ferdie, cried and cried thinking about how if I had only just been home, I could have saved him. Had I only been there to protect him like he had tried to protect me so many times. But I was not there, I could not save him, and I blamed myself. I should have known that this would happen eventually, it was in the bear’s nature. I should have known better.

A few days later, he proved my assumptions about his character when I overheard him gloating to some of his friends about how he finally got to shoot Ferdie, how happy he was to do it, how he would have taken any excuse. Tears welled up in my eyes as I thought about Ferdie again, but that made me realize something. It was not my fault. My stepfather was a horrible man, as mean and forbidding as an angry bear. That was not my fault, though. Sometimes, bad things just happened, no matter how you feel, what you do, or who you love. I took some time and walked out to where he buried Ferdie. As I wandered over his makeshift grave, I thought about all the times I had with this stupid chicken. Why I loved him. I smiled, even as I stood over his feathers in clumps and patches jutting from the broken soil. Ferdie had been loved; he made wonderful memories and lived happily until the end. His death was unjust, and I again thought how bad things just happen sometimes. It did not make it bearable by any means, but I realized that though bad things happen, so do some good things. Ferdie was a joy to me. I am glad the bear is no longer in my life, though I will never forgive him for what he did to me. However, I at least learned an important life lesson out of living with him. Behavioral scientist, Steve Maraboli, suggests that “life doesn't get easier or more forgiving; we get stronger and more resilient.”