Never Look a Chicken in the Eye

I don’t recall where I first heard it—maybe from old Mrs. Keating, who lived across the street and claimed she could read the weather in her corns—but she said, quite seriously, “Never look a chicken in the eye.”

Naturally, that stuck with me the way odd little sayings often do.

At the time, I was a boy spending the summer months running around all over the neighborhood, unsupervised. Seeing I was not indisposed, Mr. Champion hired me to do some chores around his backyard.

For a while, Mr. Champion kept a ragtag flock of chickens that tolerated him because he had the feed bucket. That, and he talked to them like they were poker buddies.

“Never look a chicken in the eye,” I repeated to myself one morning, shovel in hand, staring down the business end of a Rhode Island Red hen who’d taken offense to my presence in the coop. She stood there, puffed up like a Baptist preacher on tithing Sunday, eyeing me like she knew where I slept.

Now I’ve looked many creatures in the eye—dogs, cats, one very judgmental llama at the Sequoia petting zoo—but there’s something uniquely unsettling about the gaze of a chicken. It’s like they know too much.

Like they’ve been watching and taking notes. And this one? She was taking names.

At some point between thinking it and doing it, I forgot Mrs. Keating’s warning, and I stared right back.

That bird and I locked eyes, and the challenge was issued and accepted. I don’t remember what happened next exactly, just that there was a sudden flutter of wings, a squawk that might’ve been in Latin, and me flat on my back in the dirt with the chicken standing triumphant on my chest.

Mr. Champion stood nearby, sipping his coffee like this was Tuesday’s regular programming. “She warned ya,” he said, not clarifying whether he meant the chicken or Mrs. Keating.

From that day on, I made it a point to avoid eye contact with poultry. You might think that’s silly, and perhaps it is.

But I’ve never been tackled by a chicken since. I find if I keep my head down, toss the feed, and say “Morning, ladies” like I’m addressing royalty, I get by just fine.

That same summer, I also learned to watch out for roosters, never stand directly behind a horse with indigestion, and that if a barn cat brings you a gift, it’s best to act thankful—even if it’s missing a few essential parts.

But the chicken thing—that stuck with me longest. Because life has a way of reminding you not to mess with those who peck beneath their dignity.

I told this story once at a potluck, and some fellow laughed so hard he spilled peach cobbler all down his shirt. He said I was full of it, and chickens were harmless.

Last I heard, he was sprinting through a farm supply store parking lot, being pursued by a particularly aggressive Plymouth Rock named Gertrude. His wife told me.

So take it from me, passed down from Mrs. Keating to Mr. Champion to a boy who learned the hard way–never look a chicken in the eye. There are things in this world you can challenge—mountains, tax returns, maybe even your mother-in-law—but never chickens?

Chickens see straight through to your soul. And if they don’t like what they find, well, you’d best run faster than a Plymouth Rock with a grudge.