My husband wants to cook my rooster in a pot. And not just because of his culinary possibilities, either. No, the love of my life wants to commit cockicide.
Yeah, I know it’s not a word, but it doesn’t change his intentions. My rooster is crowing on borrowed time.
Mike has discovered the Henrietta’s and Clooney (rooster extraordinaire) in the neighbor’s front yard every morning this week. In fact, they’re knocking on the front door, panhandling for bread. This is not only embarrassing when the neighbor comes to the door empty handed, shaking a fist in the direction of my house, but also potentially dangerous for my three best egg layers. Mike is convinced Clooney is leading the hens a stray, and therefore needs to go.
My new mission is to protect my rooster from a death sentence.
I mean, I like chicken as much as the next person, I do. I can think of dozens of tasty dishes starring chicken that would get my saliva pumping. I even get a huge kick out of the Chick Fil A cows, pimping chicken on giant billboards all over town. But I don’t know if I could eat someone I know. You know? In fact, I’m pretty sure I couldn’t. Even if he is a massive dick at three am, crowing loud enough to scare the crap out of even the deepest sleeper. There’s just something about the little shit that I like, and I don’t mean his delicious taste.
But I’m going to have my work cut out for me if I want to protect the strutting, crowing, hen mounting jerk…especially after this morning. Mike woke me up just after dawn, screaming through the house about how the rooster was dead…as in, dead cock walking. Nothing in recent months has caused me to shoot of my sheets faster than the thought of my husband stalking the yard, bloody axe in hand, like a Green Acres version of Jack Nicholson in the Shining. “Come here you little fuck, I’m not gonna hurt ya…I just wanna talk.” I may be exaggerating just a bit, but hey, that’s what I do, so I’m ok with that.
I heard Clooney crow just a little while ago, and I know my husband has long since gone to the office, so it would seem the bird will live to see another day. I can’t say what tomorrow will bring, but I can say this…if it comes down to it, no matter how much I adore the little guy, if it comes down to his neck or mine, we’ll be eating Coq Au Vin for dinner.
Until the next time…I’ll be playing bodyguard for a chicken.