aka 'Psycho'

I never thought chickens had any personality but this one certainly changed my mind

BLOD

Blodwen is a little brown hen, half the size of her companions, underweight and under brained, fossicking around in the dirt for what she can find. Scratching and pecking for tasty morsels, she sambas her way around the garden, taking a worm here, a cabbage leaf there. She sees me digging and sprints over to the action, muttering and grumbling if I’m not fast enough. Fingers and toes are pecked in her impatience to get to the hidden grubs. Squawks of frustration rend the air if the fork gets in her way, and she has escaped death by decapitation only be dint of my lightening reaction in deflecting the guillotine spade away from her.
Having had her fill she’ll wander away for a quick raid on the lettuce bed and then it’s off to find a favourite spot for a bath, where she’ll dig a hole and, with showers of dust and small stones, she busily complete her ablutions. After that, if the weather’s good, she’ll have a nap in the sun, lounging on her side, with her legs stretched out and one wing spread like a sail; for all intents and purposes dead to the world.
Lulled into a false sense of security by this inertia the dog, who is a new addition to the family, approaches for a surreptitious sniff of discovery, but Blodwen is like a coiled spring and is instantly on her feet. She enters the metaphorical phone box of her mind and emerges as …….PSYCHO!
She is as a peacock, displaying her might. She is 3 feet high, 2 feet wide and bristling with armaments, from her razor sharp comb to her burnished spurs. A fighting machine ready to take on all comers. Rambo? Puh, a wimp. Arnie would crumble at the sight of her; she is the Terminator. Her beak is a lethal weapon. She lives hard and is prepared to die hard, too.
She stares at the dog, who hesitates, and while he makes up his mind whether to continue, her expression says: “Are you feeling lucky, dog?”
The dog’s not sure and tentatively wags his tail, edging his nose closer.
“Go on, make my day, punk,” is Psycho’s reaction, as she stretches her head higher, fixing him with her beady eye.
The dog is an idiot, however, and doesn’t recognise the signs. Anyway, he’s bigger than her, isn’t he? What possible harm could she do? He takes a step closer and … Bomp! Dog with pecked nose runs down the garden, and hides behind his master, looking embarrassed. Perhaps he’ll learn his lesson one day, but I doubt it.
Psycho, meanwhile, ruffles her feathers and changes back to Blodwen, calmly going about her daily business, continuing her never-ending search for food
However, it is not only the dog who feels her displeasure. She is a nightmare on any street; the chicken run becomes a killing field if any newcomer enters her territory unbidden. With a “Back off, Sister!” she imposes her authority as she rakes her handmaids’ tails, until all are submissive. She is the queen of the roost and the others had better not forget it. She may be the smallest in stature but she’s the biggest in personality and will be sorely missed when she goes.
Moreover, I’ll miss the daily egg she lays for my tea.