The Bedlam Farm Men’s Group is gaining strength. With the addition of Rocky and Red, we have an interesting and diverse group – me, Rocky, Red, Strut the rooster, Simon the donkey.  Good men all, I think, working to be better.

And we need a men’s group these days. We had another meeting in the wake of the political controversy that occurred when the man who wants to be a U.S. Senator misspoke and said that in cases of “legitimate rape,” women could abort the birth process themselves without the need for medical intervention. After a great furor, he apologized, said he used the wrong words.

Our men’s group is not political. We refuse to be labeled “left or right” but when political issues involving women come up, we try to meet and talk about them. Simon, it turns out, is the most vocal. I told him about the senator.

“And they call us dumb asses?,” he brayed. Strut asked why women allow men to decide health issues for them. Good question, I said. Some women have been compliant, and have accepted the authority and dominance of men over the years. So that is why many men still believe they can tell women what to do, I said.

“What’s a compliant woman?,” Simon asked.

You know, I said, women who do what men tell them to do.

“Like who?,” Red interjected. “Maria tells you what to do all the time, and whenever you try and tell her what to do, she gives you one of those withering stares – like the border collie eye – and you practically wet yourself.” I cleared my throat.

“Yes,” said Strut. “I was going to complain that Oprah and the new hen take food right out of my mouth. If I try to mount them, I get chased back into the barn. You’ve seen it.”

“This is true,” Simon added, supporting Strut. “Every morning, Lulu and Fanny kick me in the head. Every morning. If I even look at them cross-eyed, I get kicked in the head. You’ve taken videos of it.”

Rocky whinnied. “I’ve lived alone for 15 years,” he said, “I don’t know much about women. Red tells me he pushes the sheep around and they are women, and are they compliant?” Red bristled a bit, as if he was being singled out by his buddy.

“Well,” I said, “sheep are compliant, mostly. But women I know do not want to be sheep, or be compared to them. They can forage for food themselves.” I could see Red didn’t want go there. “Maybe,” he sniffed, “but I have nothing to do with the reproductive process. I don’t tell them who to mate with or how to have sex or babies.” True, true, I added, feeling the need to back up my dog.

I said I didn’t want to convey the impression that I was hen-pecked, especially in front of a rooster was pecked by hens every day. I put it this way. I just follow five simple rules when dealing with women – the group was all ears, and there were some impressive ears there, except for Strut, who has no ears I can see.

Number One. “Do not tell women what to do. Ever.”

This way, I added,  you will live a long and healthy life, stay out of trouble, have a good relationship, live in peace and harmony. Even get some sex regularly. Strut said this was a difficult thing for a rooster to accept. I have no problems with it, Simon said. I want more  sex. Red looked away. No way was he giving up authority over the sheep. It wasn’t political or social, he said. It was an ancient tradition. If he didn’t tell sheep what to do, they would run away, fall into ravines, get eaten by coyotes, starve to death looking for grass. Okay, okay, I said, we’re not into Social Darwinism here, herd the way you wish. I was getting ready to wind up the meeting.

“But wait,” said Strut, “you said there were five rules for dealing with women. You only mentioned one. What are the other four?”

“Oh, sorry,” I said. “No reason. The other four are the same as the first one. Don’t tell women what to do.”

We agreed to meet again soon. The presidential campaign is just beginning.