Ten Rounds with a Rooster

Intimidation will get you nowhere, Dude.

Today’s quotable moment: “Dang, it was just two roosters duking it out…”

Ten Rounds with a Rooster

I had a good day yesterday. I didn’t hurt myself, I was moderately productive, I won a solid decision over the rooster in our latest foray and the Giants won their seventh game in a row. I’d like to take credit for that last, but since my name is neither Johnny Cueto nor Hunter Pence, I don’t think you’d swallow that. 

I was also asleep by the time the game started so I didn’t even find out who won until the wee hours this morning.

But hey, how about that rooster? I’ve mentioned in passing that Dude has a dual role on our farm, providing not only the conventional alarm clock beginning punctually at 4:57 AM, but also that of the raucous hens, squawking away gleefully at the arrival of an egg. 

He is quite dependable, in a sick, twisted sort of way.

Unfortunately, I am particularly susceptible to the incessant cackling of the hens, as they congregate together and attempt to outdo one another announcing somewhat dubious glad tidings. 

The added ruckus of the rooster is not a welcome one.

In the greater scheme of things, laying an egg is not a very glamorous accomplishment; mimicking the hens hardly qualifies as a feather in one’s comb.

So when the rooster joins in, bleating out the same bizarre note over and over on two-second intervals, loud enough to pierce my two hundred dollar Dr. Dre headphones, I draw a line in the sand, er, straw. This is devilishly hard to do, especially when the rooster will insist on flapping his wings in addition to flapping his beak.

I have made it a point to address my issues with said rooster but he has not been receptive to my concerns. It’s possible he was too busy avoiding the broom I was wielding as the primary means of clarifying my angst, but that is a weak excuse.

More likely, he was embarrassed by being observed by a second party, being chased around the chicken-yard by an old geezer with a broom in his hand. 

Not half as embarrassed as I was. 

Sure enough, there was Ian in the workshop, door wide open, as I emerged victorious from my furious workout with the rooster. He was placidly working away (Ian, not the rooster) without any indication that he had just seen me silently pursuing Dude around his own crib, attempting to clobber him with a broom.

Ian figures we went ten rounds, but I’m not sure about that.

I felt as though I chased that rooster ‘round that yard way more than just ten times.