cock-a-doodle don't

Remember Crockpot Roy? The rooster that decided my daughter was public enemy number one? Yeah, he's still alive. I'd like to say he's playing it cool these days, and I guess in some small way, he is. He didn't try to attack Alexa when she came home last night, but then again, he was sleeping. And about that? He sleeps less than I do. And when he's not sleeping, all nineteen...twenty hours of the day and night, he's crowing. At the top of his lungs. Cock-a-freaking-doodle do.

He has officially surpassed Clooney as the most annoying rooster of the decade. He doesn't just crow, either. He likes to do a duet with Siegfried, the other adult rooster in residence. They start their show at four am, on the dot. And like a rousing rendition of dueling banjos, or Lambchop's song that never ends, they keep going long after the sunrise. In fact, they keep going past lunch, on through dinner, and don't stop until it's lights out for chickens. And those blissful few hours when Crockpot Roy and his buddy Ziggy are sleeping? Farmyard gold.

I guess that's just one of the many perks of living on a farm. Or being a judge on American Idol. You get stuck listening to the ear-numbing sounds coming out of good intentioned roosters, preening for attention.  But unlike Simon Cowell, I can actually serve mine for dinner.

Hear that Roy? Keep it up and you'll be auditioning for Crockpot factor.  The marinated edition.

Until the next time...I'll be grabbing what sleep I can before the next show. 

murder on the farm

The sun had barely crested the horizon when the anguished crow sounded from the side yard. I lifted my head from the pillow to listen. My husband did the same.

"What was that?" I asked, as I struggled to focus on the clock. "It sounded a lot like a turkey."

"No, that sounded like Chester!" My husband bolted out of bed, grabbing his pants and boots on his way to the back door, calling out to me as he went. "I think the fox might have gotten him." 

I hurried into my own boots to follow him, but we were too late. We found Chester crumpled in the tall grass, his breathing labored and his neck broken. All but dead, with no hope of survival.  

This was no fox attack. No self-respecting fox would leave such a mouthwatering meal uneaten. This was the work of an unknown ninja attacker.  Poor, poor Chester.

Once Chester's last breath had been taken, we said a few words over his body.

"Should we go ahead and pluck him?" My husband asked.

My mouth dropped open and I stared at him. "Pluck him? What do you mean, pluck him?" 

He shrugged. "Well, we might as well eat him." 

There was no way I was eating that bird. He had just fought off an attacker in the yard. An attacker bound and determined to kill as many chickens as it could. He saved all but one, but suffered a mortal wound in the process.

Chester was a hero. A hero deserving of a eulogy.

Chester A Rooster

Sometime in 2010 or 2011 - July 22, 2013

Devoted husband, father, and friend

Chester A. Rooster was born in captivity. For much of his young life, he knew nothing outside of the small pen he was housed in. He didn't know how to beg for bread, didn't know how forage for bugs and grasses, in fact, he knew very little. But after we took him in, he quickly found his gift. His lush golden feathers and sweet demeanor easily made him the favorite of the hens on the farm. He made friends with the ducks (before the fox ate them) and even befriended the pigs.

In fact, it wasn't uncommon to find Chester perched on the back of one of the pigs for the night. There were times when he spent weeks on end in the pig pen. Oh sure, it was mostly because he forgot how to get out once he'd gotten in, but that didn't seem to dampen his spirits at all. All the way to the end, he was a kindhearted, dingbat of a bird.

Chester is survived by three wives--Henrietta, Henny Penny, and Mrs. McGillicuddy. He was the father to ten children--Lucy, Maude, the late Ethel (also lost to a possible ninja garden gnome) Biscuit, Buffy, Lucy 2, and three as yet unnamed daughters. He will also be missed by several other chickens, two pigs (until next week when they go to the big freezer in the sky) and thirteen turkeys (that never actually met him, but would have loved him if they had.) Taking over from Chester will be Siegfried and Roy, our two young Aseel roosters. They may be fighting game cocks, but they're as docile as Chester, and only half as brave. They have their work cut out for them if they want to fill his...um...feet?

Also lost in the early morning melee was one of our prized Silver Dorking hens. She didn't have a name (they all sort of look a like) but she had a sweet personality. She, and her eggs, will be missed. 

If we could have just a moment of silence for the dead. 

Until the next time...I'll be shopping for a new rooster. 

having a friend for dinner

I can't even count the number of times I've said, "I'm having a friend for dinner." But I can say, without question, this is the first time I've actually had a friend for dinner. And I'll come right out and admit it, my mouth was watering at the delectable smells coming out of the kitchen while poor Clooney cooked.

Mike went all out, marinating him in red wine before putting him in the oven. He even mashed potatoes with horseradish and cooked fresh green beans as side dishes. But as beautiful as the presentation may have been, I couldn't help feeling like I was on an episode of Fear Factor as I took the first few bites of the little guy. Not because he wasn't delicious (he was), but because I knew him. It was like eating a friend for dinner.

A very tasty friend.

And so it would seem, the life cycle of dearly departed Clooney has come full circle. You were a fine rooster Clooney, and a fine dining experience as well.

Until the next time...I'll be having Clooney leftovers.

arachnids, reindeer, and roosters past

It all started with a spider.

For whatever reason (and I'm sure someone out there will have an answer) I've noticed a sudden onslaught of giant black tarantula-looking spiders scurrying across my living room floor at all hours of the day and night. So, while it's always a shock to see a spider, I wasn't overly surprised when I saw this particular one out of the corner of my eye as I sat down to work on my laptop. But surprised or not, this spider, just like all of his arachnid friends, had to go. So, I jumped up from my chair and bolted for the closest bottle of spray cleaner to disable him long enough to stomp. I squeezed the trigger again and again until his little legs stuck up and he stopped moving.

That's when the phone rang.

Can anyone tell me why I can never find the cordless phone when it's ringing? I run across them all day long when I don't need one, but the minute it starts to ring, I can't seem to locate a handset. And the genius who designed my cordless system decided it would be a good idea to have the charging station ring when a call comes in. So here I am, running from charging station to charging station, thinking I'll find a phone that never seems to be where it belongs when I need it.

I finally find the missing handset next to the stove in the kitchen (the first place any logical person would look, right?) and after a few minutes convincing with my local phone provider that I really and truly don't want they're lesser quality internet service over the high speed product I'm currently using, I discover something delectable cooking on the stove. (This would be a perfectly normal occurrence if not for the fact that I'm the only one home and I didn't cook anything today.) So at the risk of stumbling across something horrible in the pot, I lifted the lid and took a deep breath. Mmmm. Stew.

A quick phone call to the hubby solved the mystery of the stew (delicious deer meat courtesy of my mother when she came to visit.) So, as much as I'd like to feel bad that I'm serving myself a nice bowl of Bambi stew...no, it's Christmastime...we'll call it Rudolph, no, Donner stew, because Donner was such a jerk in the classic Rudolph Christmas special it somehow seems fitting we cook him in a pot.  So as I dish up my Donner stew, I remember I had work to do and I take my bowl and spoon and head back to my laptop in the living room.

And that's when I realized the spider was gone. Nothing but a wet trail left behind as he miraculously pulled himself out of the puddle of bleach cleaner to flee the scene. I lost his trail somewhere near the dining room table and gave up.

I just didn't have the heart to hunt him down. Maybe we've had enough killing around the haunted farmhouse for one week. I still think about poor Clooney every time open the refrigerator doors. He just doesn't look the same without his feathers...or his head. Oh well, no use crying over dead roosters.

Besides, I have to keep a look out for my wayward spider.  I have no doubt I'll find him again, and when I do, I won't hesitate to spray and stomp. And I won't feel a bit of sorrow for his loss. Hey, that's just how I roll. Don't judge me.

Until the next time...I'll be hunting spiders.

death of a rooster (clooney's last crow)

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.

Baby ClooneyThe 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.

Clooney last weekSo 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.