“Tippin”

(Chicken Du Jour)

Some bullies get expelled. Some get breaded and deep fried.

We all had a childhood tormentor.
A school bully.
A mean cousin.
A neighborhood kid with a slingshot and poor judgement.

Mine?
Was a rooster named Tippin.

Tippin wasn’t just any rooster—he was my mother’s pet.
A ‘Dominique’, supposedly a “gentle, people-loving chicken.”
Sure. And raccoons make great babysitters.

Tippin hated me.
That rooster had rage issues, mostly directed at me.
If he saw me step outside, it was like a chicken version of ‘Cujo’. He’d fly at me like a feathered missile—claws out, beak sharp, wings flapping with fury.

And yes, chickens can fly. Not far. But far enough to make you scream and pee a little.

I once locked myself in the toolshed for an entire afternoon.
That wasn’t cowardice—just pure survival instinct.
It was either me or him—and I didn’t like my odds.

Enter my friend Willie. Willie was a little boy about my own age who lived about a half mile through the woods.
His momma’s name? Tamp.
Nope, not short for anything. Just Tamp. It was a family name. Or maybe a dare. No one was ever quite sure.

One Friday, Willie and I were playing when Tippin cornered us in my yard.
Willie, sweating and frustrated, finally yelled:
“That damn rooster’s been comin’ into our yard too—scarin’ our dogs!”

Willie’s family didn’t have much.
They raised chickens for eggs, grew their own food, and Tamp worked odd jobs when she could. But they made do.

And Sunday dinner? That was sacred at their house.

Suddenly… I had an idea.
I casually mentioned (three times, as subtly as a 7-year-old can manage):
“My momma’s tired of that rooster. Says she wishes it would just disappear.”
Willie got the hint.

Two days later—Hmmm. Tippin was gone.

Momma called for him.
Walked around the yard, yelling like he was a lost toddler at Kmart.
“I just don’t know what could’ve happened to Tippin,” she said.

I shrugged. “Maybe he ran away to find himself.”

Later that day, I walked up to Willie’s house. It was a Sunday, so I knew they’d be home.
Man, oh man, the moment I started down their dirt drive, I could smell it.

Chicken.
Golden. Fried. Heaven-sent.
With a side of peace.

I knocked. Willie answered, grinning ear to ear.
From the kitchen, Tamp shouted:
“Boy, get on in here and fix you a plate!”
And I did.

That Sunday, deliverance from evil came dressed in crispy skin, with gravy, collard greens, and a cathead biscuit the size of a hubcap.
That was the best damn fried chicken I’ve ever had.
Sweet justice seasoned with a little salt and a whole lotta satisfaction.

As I sat at that table, full as a tick and free of my tormentor, I sent up a silent thanks.
Turns out Tippin was good for something after all.

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