OMG Nasty Minea shrieked when the chicken darted in and stole her food. She froze for one shocked second, then fury exploded. Her tiny body lunged forward, eyes blazing, arms flailing as she attacked the chicken twice, driven by hunger and pride. The chicken squawked and hopped back, feathers flying, while Minea screamed louder, defending what she believed was hers.
She chased it across the yard, feet slapping the ground, anger sharper than fear. Caregivers rushed closer, calling her name, but Minea was focused. That bowl was her comfort, her victory, her moment. Losing it felt like betrayal. She swatted again, missing, then stopped, chest heaving, tears mixing with rage.
Mom stepped in, firm and fast, lifting Minea gently but decisively. The chicken was shooed away. Minea kicked and cried, pointing, accusing, screaming about the theft in a language only emotion spoke. Her hands shook. Her stomach still wanted food. Her heart wanted justice.
Mom knelt and spoke calmly, setting boundaries without shaming. She explained sharing space with animals, protecting food safely, and using voice instead of attacks. Minea screamed once more, then collapsed into sobs, exhaustion overtaking anger. The fight had burned her small reserves.
Food returned, portioned and guarded. Minea ate slowly now, watching the yard, wary but calmer. Mom stayed close, offering reassurance with presence rather than punishment. The chicken kept distance. Peace crept back.
Later, Minea glanced toward where the chicken had been, then back to her bowl. She didn’t scream. She didn’t strike. She breathed. The lesson settled quietly: anger can protect, but control keeps you safe. That day, Minea learned strength includes restraint, and care arrives fastest when fury yields to guidance, patience, trust, and calm love.
