Mommy Chicken’s Fury and Minea’s Indifference
The small, dusty patch behind the shed was Mommy Chicken’s domain. It was here, tucked beneath a thorny bush, that she had painstakingly built her nest, a cozy haven of straw and feathers, home to her precious clutch of eggs. And it was here that Minea, with her boundless curiosity and disregard for boundaries, consistently drew the ire of the protective mother hen.
Mommy Chicken wasn’t a particularly large bird, but her fury was immense when it came to her nest. Her usually calm clucking would transform into a series of sharp, indignant squawks, her head feathers would ruffle up like an angry crown, and she’d puff herself up to twice her size, a feathered ball of pure maternal rage.
Minea, however, seemed immune to Mommy Chicken’s warnings. To her, the nest wasn’t a sacred sanctuary; it was an intriguing mystery, a source of potential wonder. What did the eggs look like up close? How warm were they? Could she peek inside without disturbing anything? These questions fueled her desire to get closer, to investigate.
Every time Minea ventured near the shed, Mommy Chicken would be there, a feathered sentinel on high alert. The moment Minea’s small feet crossed an invisible line, the squawking would begin. “Bawk! Bawk! BWAAAAK!” Mommy Chicken would yell, flapping her wings and taking a few aggressive steps towards the approaching girl.
Chamroeun, who had witnessed these confrontations countless times, would often watch from a safe distance, a mixture of fear and fascination on his face. He knew Mommy Chicken meant business. He’d seen her peck at stray cats and even the occasional brave (or foolish) dog that dared to linger too close.
But Minea… Minea just didn’t care. Or perhaps it was more accurate to say she was more curious than afraid. She’d stop, watch Mommy Chicken’s display of fury, and sometimes even talk to her, as if explaining her innocent intentions. “I just want to see your eggs, Mommy Chicken,” she’d say, her voice calm amidst the avian uproar.
Of course, Mommy Chicken didn’t understand human words. All she heard was the approaching threat, the potential danger to her unborn chicks. Her squawks would intensify, her movements becoming more agitated. She’d peck at the air, a clear warning of what would happen if Minea didn’t retreat.
Despite the clear and present danger, Minea would often take another step, her eyes fixed on the hidden nest. She’d try to peek under the bush, her hand outstretched hesitantly. And each time, Mommy Chicken’s anger would escalate. She’d run at Minea, a feathered missile of maternal protection, forcing the girl to finally back away, sometimes with a little shriek of surprise.
Even after being chased off, Minea wouldn’t be deterred for long. A little while later, the lure of the nest would pull her back, and the cycle would repeat. Mommy Chicken, always on guard, always angry when Minea went near her nest. Minea, always curious, always pushing the boundaries, seemingly unaffected by the hen’s fierce warnings. It was a never-ending dance of maternal protection and childish curiosity, a testament to Mommy Chicken’s unwavering dedication and Minea’s stubborn refusal to heed the angry clucking of a protective mother hen.
