Well, it finally happened. Clooney’s number was up, his days ran out, and his chips were cashed in. I’d like to say he went out like a man, but the truth is he went out like a crazed chicken, screeching like a little girl staring down the business end of a spider. And, well…I would have tried to save him, but the whole thing happened so quickly I didn’t even realize it was going down until the deed was done.
The first scheduled execution at the haunted farmhouse.
The sad end to Clooney’s tale (or tail depending on your point of view) was actually set in motion last weekend when Mike and I ran across a full grown rooster for sale in the breed Mike wanted (a buff orpington for chicken lovers out there). Chester (the new resident cock) will make perfect chicks with the ummm…errr…chicks around here. So for the bargain price of five dollars cash (counted out in coins because who carries cash anymore?) we had ourselves a new stud for the fock. Unfortunately, this addition didn’t go over so well with the current big man on campus and we witnessed our first ever cock-fight in the yard. It wasn’t nearly as exciting as I thought it would be, and I found myself torn as to who to root for. In the end, it didn’t matter. Chester was in. Clooney was out.
As it turns out, poor Clooney’s days were numbered from the minute he came out of his shell. He wasn’t supposed to be a rooster. And like Mike said from the day we realized he was exactly that, “Well…he’ll make a good crock pot meal.”
Of course, I fought for the big cock right from the get go. He may not have been the right kind of rooster, he might have even been a big dick most of the time (crowing at all hours of the day and night with no regard to normal rooster schedules) but he was my rooster, and I wanted to keep him.
So the Save Clooney campaign was born. People from all over the world wrote in, begging for Clooney’s life (and a few asking for the recipe we intended to use if we cooked him). The neighbors even seemed to like him, despite his tendency to go off like a broken alarm clock.
But sadly, in the end, no amount of petitioning or begging would save the little pecker from the executioner (my husband). And now it would seem instead of feeding Clooney dinner, we’ll be having Clooney for dinner sometime in the near future.
So here’s to you Clooney. You were a damn good rooster…I hope you’ll make a damn good chicken stew too!
Until the next time…I’ll be making room in my refrigerator for one of my favorite pets.