She'd never liked the nameless resident female poultry in Gran's back yard. But there was something about Mr. Bangs, the rooster, the Big Daddy, that really made her crazy. Sure, the crowing at dawn (roosters have no concept of Summer Vacation) was enough to make any eighth-grade city girl despair, but it wasn't just that.
It was the way he'd look at her when she entered his domain, that dry, cooped corner, literally crawling with perfect food for a demanding rooster--and the ladies, when Mr. Bangs deemed them worthy. Oh, he'd stand stock-still, his head cocked slightly to one side, in a silent face-off, that beady left eye catching the light. It was an unspoken but quite apparent dare: "Go ahead, Sweetheart, just try taking one more step toward My Brood!"
She'd try reasoning with him, alerting him to the fact that the people, those beings living in that big coop over there, were the ones ultimately in charge. There were weapons, stew pots, and coyotes in neighboring states. But no, Mr. Bangs cared nothing for logic. Well, forget it; too much stood--again, literally--between her and those eggs. She'd go get Gran one more time and resign herself to trying another day. A second summer of admitting defeat just wouldn't do, but for now, Mr. Bangs and his reign of terror would continue.