the tale of the dimwitted rooster

​I've never been one of those parents who thinks their children are without flaws. Despite their natural born intelligence, I frequently find myself gaping with astonishment at their foolish choices. But as often as they make mistakes, I see progress. I see them growing into mature, responsible adults...and I might even live to see the day they actually reach that goal.

This is the major difference between human children and beloved pets. ​

My dog is like a giant toddler who will never grow beyond his three year old mentality. He knows at least a hundred words, cheese and carrots being two of his favorites, but he'll never have a job. Never move out and live on his own. Never speak more than the rudimentary vocalizations that sound a whole lot like, "Momma." But as simplistic as he is, I love my dog.

My rooster is another story.​

Chester A. Rooster. The name seemed to fit when we gave it to him. He was already grown when we brought him home, but we had high hopes for him, nonetheless. And truly, as roosters go, he hasn't been a bad one. He managed to fertilize the eggs that hatched in January, giving us three lovely chickens to add to our flock. But beyond that, he's the dumbest bird I've ever laid eyes on. ​

This crazy bird clucks like a hen. All day long. He mimics the hens in their clucking as if he's one of the girls. I'm almost embarrassed for him. If we had other roosters, he would undoubtedly be the laughingstock of the bunch. I mean, he does know how to crow, but he rarely does. And unlike the last rooster we had, he doesn't cock a doodle do at all hours of the day or night. That simple fact, and his obvious fertility, are the only things saving him from the chopping block. ​Now he's managed to figure out how to escape from the fenced area, but can't figure out how to get back in. He has all of the remaining chickens roosting with him outside the containment area at night, where the garden gnome/fox can get them. I only hope the fox is fooled into thinking they're all inside the fence.

I guess the moral of the story is don't kill your roosters before the replacement has been fully vetted. The last rooster had his issues, but he was a bad ass chicken that could hold his own in a fight. Not the chicken shit rooster we have now that's afraid of his own shadow, and prances around the yard like...like Big Bird from Sesame Street. ​

Ah...such is life on the farm.​

Until the next time...I'll be watching for missing chickens.​

downpours, dead mice and demented ducks

I have come to the undeniable conclusion that I have a very odd existance. Not odd in a bad way…like, “Gee, did you eat a lot of paint chips as a child?” Or, “Wow, I don’t know what you’re on, but I’d like some of that.” No, odd in a different way. A sort of fun way, once I have a bit of distance from the day to look back on it. Like today. What a freaking weird day today turned out to be.

It started out normal…mundane really. My daughter was feeling sick, so after everyone else in the house had gone to work, she came storming into my room, fuzzy blanket in tow, and announced that she was sick, and bored, and would be watching TV in my room. This required a trip to the living room to swap out the only good batteries from the other Dish remote so we could actually watch TV in my room. Then, instead of getting a few hours of much needed sleep, I found myself watching Hairspray with my sick daughter…and the dog. Because the dog can’t have anyone in my bed unless he’s stretched out between us, making sure I’m completely safe from any sort of accidental arm brushing or nudging. So he slept on his back, head nestled in the pillow, snoring so loudly we had to crank up the sound to hear the musical. Right…this was the normal, mundane part of my day, remember?

I realized sometime after lunch that I hadn’t heard a peep (or a crow) out of our resident fugitive, the cocky rooster, Clooney, and I was worried my husband had secretly taken him out back and done away with him. He didn’t, but this is something I prepare myself for each day, even though I secretly think he’s starting to like him now that he’s getting so much attention on the web. So, yeah, keep up the pleas for Clooney, it might actually be sinking in.

So, once I discovered the chickens were in hiding and not the freezer, I set off on the rest of my exceedingly boring day. I read. I swept the dog hair and teddy bear fluff from the floors. And I ordered pizza because I hate to cook. Boring.

Then the storm hit.

It was practically a typhoon. I don’t know where it came from, but suddenly I was watching out the window for a witch on a broom, or something. I know…wrong storm, but it was seriously whipping up debris out there. My husband came bounding through the backdoor as if he was shot out of a cannon…a water cannon…and we proceeded to watch things blow around the backyard by the light of the intermittent lightning flashes.

I was worried about the flock. The last thing I wanted to see was my stupid rooster…the one I’ve been trying to save for days, or even weeks…suddenly splat into the window like a bug on a windshield. I was worried the ducks would drown. I’d heard about turkeys drowning in the rain, but are ducks as stupid as turkeys? I had no idea. It was pitch black outside, and the sound of the rain hammering the house would surely drown out a duck’s plea for help, so I was frantic. Well…mildly concerned maybe.

Then I saw them.

The crazy juvenile ducks, all clearly suffering from some form of avian ADHD, were dancing around the baby pool as it was pounded by rain. I could only see them as the sky lit up from above, but it was like watching some sort of freakish cult, dancing circles around the baby pool as if they were planning to sacrifice a virgin or something.

Once I could tear my eyes away from the spectacle outside, I heard one of the girls yelling that the cat had snagged another mouse in the back hallway. I was secretly hoping they were dragging them in from the yard, as cats often do. I didn’t want to think they were doing their jobs and hunting mice inside the house, but there it was.

Proof.

I have freaking mice on top of everything else this house has to offer. The ghosts, the flies, the spiders, the horrible plumbing, the scary basement…not enough. No, I had to have mice too. Well, at least I have cats, right? And damn fine hunters too. They’ve bagged three of those suckers in the past week alone, and it’s only Wednesday. My third least favorite day of the week, by the way. And after the day I’ve had, I might have to upgrade it a few notches. At least temporarily.

Until the next time…I’ll be buying special treats for my kitties!

coc au vin

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.

Just sayin’

Until the next time…I’ll be playing bodyguard for a chicken.

so much for the quiet country

Was it just a few days ago I was going on about how cute my little rooster was? Oh, so cute with his cock-a-doodle-do-ing. Yeah…it was cute alright. Until it started going off every hour on the hour (give or take a few minutes) all freaking night long.

Cock-a-freaking-doodle-do.

I’m beginning to understand how they got their name. My rooster is a dick. And oh so attractive for a bird, but isn’t that always the way? The cute cocky ones are always trouble…I should have listened to Mom. (She’s had chickens before, you know.)

People seem to think living on a farm is all tranquil and quiet, but I can assure you, the sound of crowing at three am is not far from the sound of horns honking along a busy road. And speaking of loud…the damn bugs out here are ridiculous. It sounds like a UFO is hovering over my house. Either that or the plagues of Egypt are making a sudden comeback. Are those cicadas or locust? Is it any wonder I fall asleep listening to classical music?

But even Beethoven can’t drown out the sounds of my hundred and eighty pound mastiff snoring at the foot of my bed.

Are you still wondering why I never sleep?

Until the next time…I’ll be shopping for ear plugs.

cock-a-doodle-do!

If you’ve been keeping up, you know I recently moved to the farm and bought a bunch of baby chickens. Then two weeks ago, I added a few mostly grown, almost ready to lay, hens to those baby chickens. And today, I picked up a few more chicks, just for the fun of it.

You could say I’m obsessed with chickens…in fact, my husband said he was becoming addicted to the farm animal aspect of farm living. It’s like watching the chicken show every day. Just toss a few live worms, or a piece of white bread, into the chicken pen and sit back and watch the show!

I was so excited today as I did the head count…three almost ready to lay eggs…and twelve that will be just a few months behind them. Ummm…make that eleven.

Cock-a-doodle-doOne of my pullets (girl chickens) is actually a rooster (that’s a boy chicken for the uninformed.)

I discovered this little twist while examining my chicks today in the yard. One of them was more interested in flying than the others. It was trying to perch up high. It was bigger than the others. And it has a strangely over-developed “comb” (that’s the red thing on the top of their heads). This discovery prompted me to pick him up and check out his very muscular legs.

This chick has a pair of spurs on his legs. Hens don’t have spurs…Roosters have spurs. I have a rooster.

OMG! I have a rooster!

I was so excited. Suddenly, I was trying to come up with very roostery names for this “king of the peeps.” I pulled a chair up to the pen and stared down at him for hours, watching how he moves…how he interacts with the others…waiting for him to crow (he hasn’t yet.) 

My husband came up behind me and asked if my fascination with roosters means I’m obsessed with cocks.

Men. They always have to circle the conversation back to that!

Then again…does living on a farm mean I can say cock without getting strange looks? Can I invite people to come check out my…nah…probably not.

Until the next time…I’ll be waiting for my rooster to crow!