The Heady Case of the Cock and the Hen

A few weeks ago, a rather curious occurrence unfurled right in front of me, or, as the case may be, on top of me. I was seated on a stoop, taking an interview of a nice young Nepali teen—rather shy, and quite proper. He sat with his hands in his lap, his eyes bashfully refusing to meet mine, as I listed off questions about whether he “had felt sad lately” or “had wobbly legs” or “thought about sex less than usual.” Like many rural Nepalis, his family owned an assemblage of chickens, goats, and water buffalo, all of which have free reign of the courtyard during the day. 

Chickens—you might not know—have a rather misogynistic sex life, which largely involves the roosters relentlessly terrorizing the neighborhood hens. Indeed, poultry poontang resembles a high-stakes game of tag, except with penetration and a dozen peeping consequences. Generally, all the chickens seemingly mind their own business. Cocks and hens alike peck around the barnyard, but the roosters, hiding their motives a guise of casually milling about, have darker designs. They nonchalantly peck their way over to the nearest hen, and pounce. What ensues is a panicked, squawking, flogging fuss of feathers, leaving the rooster preening and the hen self-consciously checking the area for witnesses, clucking crossly, and then resuming her matronly procession around the barnyard, as if she weren’t just violated by some asshole wearing spurs.  

So on this particular occasion, as I’m taking an interview, out of the corner of my eye, I note these sort of shenanigans occurring in the courtyard. The cock jumps the hen, but she flees before he can mount a successful attack. I continue on with my questions; having seen far worse in college, I remain nonplussed by such primal mating rituals. Suddenly, the fleeing hen, seeking refuge, having set her sights on my head, flaps onto it. Taken by surprise, I try to remove the offending chicken, but she has tangled her claws in my hair and is thus ensnared. The cock, in hot pursuit, capitalizes on this golden opportunity. He leaps on the helpless chicken and begins about his business on top of my head. So, here I am, clawing at the copulating pair, shrieking and laughing simultaneously at my poor luck.  

The boy who I had been interviewing doesn’t react, but instead watches absently, as if this sort of thing happens daily. I suppose at some point he realizes that I’m in need of assistance, as the rooster has fulfilled his biological imperative and has since dismounted from the chicken on my head, and is strutting away, satisfied. The boy helps me untangle her claws, and once freed, chucks the hen across the yard. Relieved and embarrassed, I giggle compulsively, desperate for affirmation of the absurdity of what just happened. The boy primly takes his seat, and raises his eyebrows, and says, “Next question?”