Rooster

As my hosts live the simple life I am living on a farm. The usual assortment of farm paraphernalia can be found around the house, in the barn and leading to the fields out back. There is the cat for mousing, the cow for milking, the dog to protect the chickens and yes, chickens. With chickens comes a rooster. Their rooster hates me. And the feeling is mutual.

Imagine Napoleon's shorter cousin. This rooster is half the size of the hens but he is always immaculate. His feathers are always clean and shinny; every one of them in perfect alignment, while the hens are covered in mud. There is even a much larger rooster among the order but the sawed off little runt rules them all.

He likes to go for the surprise attack. Once my back is turned he runs across the yard and leaps, flapping his wings and kicking and picking at my leg. With the convenience of farm life wood is split in the same yard that the chickens are kept. The rooster must think he is safe but I am not a farmer. I have no qualms with putting his neck on the chopping block. I'm sure I could convince my hosts that it was a freak accident, that he jumped right as the blade fell. You can always get another rooster. He is so scrawny though I doubt he would yield much meat.

He is either a good reason to not eat chicken or a good reason to eat more chicken. Many a time at dinner I have thought of him as I've spooned down big bowls of cooked chicken. And I have found that the rooster is no match against a size twelve boot……..