The drama begins at 4:15 am. Whoever made that damning statement to the truth, declaring roosters crow at first light, had never been awakened by the “first call” or, they lived in the city. So much for expertise. I, along with my new best friend Insomnia, have been awake to hear the call of the domesticated warrior. And so the day begins, long before first light.
Amongst my first chores of the day is to release the feathery ladies from their keep. If I am tardy to this event they are sure to advise that peace and tranquility will not be restored until their demands are met. Upon release I am granted instant gratification as the stage is now set for the morning’s first act.
It begins with the same game, “How many girls can we squeeze through a small opening at the same time”, concurrently with “Can I pass through this wire if I try hard enough?” Proof that Ron Hubbard is wrong. I have yet to witness Shredded Tweet!
The morning dance and display put on by Cogburn the rooster is an amusing sight. It is his dogmatic belief that all the girls should perform this dance with him. This is not the same tenet held by the girls, however. So the chase begins. Cogburn is not the fastest bird in the yard but makes up for it with his inexhaustible will. The mating rituals of Gallus domesticus are rather barbaric in the eyes of some. Either way, it is a spectacle. One morning Cogburn became congruent with this bestial notion. The ladies had not yet been released from their pen, which is a prerequisite to the conjugal tango, but Cogburn lost his sense of decorum. While his focus was having a sip, Cogburn pounced on her back driving her head under the water. Had they been swine she would have drowned, but roosters are more akin to flashpaper and so she escaped a terrible fate.
First light has long since passed. Cogburn is busy finding interesting morsels to proffer. He calls out with an excitable garble as he proclaims “Look at this! How wonderful” and bequeaths it to the objects of his affection. Such the gentleman is he. The girls ungrudgingly snack it down.
Grapes make for exciting play. As I take up my usual station on the deck, they flock to a spot where they know the goodies will appear. It makes no mind how many grapes I toss at once, it always turns into a rugby match. A grape is snatched up and the featherhead begins to run. The others join in the pursuit to see if they can steal away the undeniably best fruit. All the while the other grapes sit, awaiting their consumption.
There are currently a dozen birds in the flock. No, make that thirteen. Two of the girls suffering from Excessive Excitement Syndrome were relocated to a neighboring farm. The other night while locking the pen and doing the ritual head count I noticed that one of the girls had made a jail break and returned to her favorite roost. I suppose she didn’t like the victuals there. She’s been quiet ever since.
And so evening sets in. The birds are on their roosts, tucked in for the night. I check to see that they have water, top off their food, and collect the reason for this symbiotic relationship. They know my presence and cluck a few good nights, Walton’s style. It’s good for the soul to keep chickens! I, for one, am a better man because of it.
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LOL! What an awesome recount of a day in the life! Loved this... Especially, since there are so many farmers in my family. Your vivid prose brought back so many memories! You definitely have the gift of the pen!
ReplyDeleteI recall the stories my grandmother used to tell about chickens who drowned in the rain because when they felt the first raindrop, they looked up to see what it was and didn't have the sense to get out of the rain. And Daddy has stories about watching his mom cutting cockleburs out of the chicken's gullets. I for one recall my dismay over being chased by my mean rooster whom I had loved as a small chick. Grandmother reported that he made an excellent Sunday dinner....