So I was mowing the other day.
Now, to really set the stage, you need to understand a something first. Our grass is long. Really long. This is the first time it's been cut since we moved here. And while in Arizona that may give you patchy mid-calf-high grass, here it is knee-high, waist-high, and in places, even taller than Don, depending on the variety. It is thick and lush and really, really long. Thick, okay? Really thick and long. If I seem to be repeating myself, it's only to justify what comes next.
The grass is so thick that the riding mower clogs up every 2-3 feet and the flap must be lifted to pull out the grass. Except that I figured out that if I just hold the flap open as I drive, I can keep going. I'm sure it breaks all sorts of rules, but hey, it works. Grass does fly pretty high, but it still flies away from me, so I'm safe. But that arm does get covered with grass.
So, here I am, driving along in the thick grass with one hand on the wheel and one hand on the flap holding it open. And all of a sudden, the blade starts to make an awful racket and as I look down, feathers and blood are flying out of the flap along with the grass! Of course, I immediately stop the mower as I try to absorb what has just taken place. Don came running (I think I screamed) and checked to make sure that I had all my body parts because my arm was pretty well spattered with blood.
So, that's one less rooster that we'll be processing next time. At least it was an instantaneous death, though I would've preferred getting to use the meat instead of just having to pick up pieces in the lawn.
I told the other chickens to please be careful of the LARGE, LOUD machine with the spinning blade. They've taken it under advisement.