Wandering Words

Posted By Heather on August 28, 2009

Dear Kim-

I’m so sorry to hear about your chicks doing chicken olympics all night and keeping you awake. Now I know you love your baby chicks, but I also know there is another side to you girl, and I know that those chicks better settle down or else……which reminds me of a story….

A true chicken story…… when James & I were neighbors and his landlady Anna had chickens, they would come over under his window and scratch around and just do batty chicken things when he was trying to sleep. He tried to scare them off, he tried all sorts of things. There were two young roosters and they decided that the best place to have their cock battles was under his bedroom window. So one day, after working his night shift, the roosters were going at it about noon.

He got the gun and went out the door in his boxers, and shot one of the roosters. He left it laying there and went back to bed.

I found out about it from him when I got home from work. He looked like hell. He told me the story and I asked him for the rooster.

It was dinner time, and well…. We had to do something before he had to go to work again at eight. And even while I asked him for the rooster, I’m looking at him, his bleary eyes, his red hair standing straight up, like a cockscomb, and I just started laughing.

I could just picture him all bleary, barefoot, in boxers, with the gun and his red hair standing straight up…. And then I would start laughing again. I guess the biggest rooster won, once and for all.

I wanted to know where the rooster was, heck, I wanted to eat it. And he didn’t even know. No one knew. He had left it laying there and gone back to bed, I went around the back of his house and there were some feathers scattered round. No blood. No rooster. Something drug it off I suppose.

I teased him that he dreamed the whole rooster revenge scenario, but he showed me the gun, and it had been fired. He gave me the stink eye, and he looked exhausted and his hair was standing on end and there I was teasing him and asking for the rooster for dinner.

Just one more reason that people should not work nights…. They have no sense of humor.

So hunny, back when we were roommates, I’ve seen you in your pj’s all grumpy from no sleep. I knew enough to get outa the way. And I’ve seen you gleefully shooting potato targets with James’ guns. “Die, potato, die!”

And now many years later, I know you’re living on your jungle farm in Hawaii, and I know you’ve got a gun…. and well, I can just picture a pj’s and gunsmoke bloody end to your chicken Olympics.

Just make sure you pick up the bodies and get them cleaned and plucked. No need to waste a good chicken.

Love you dear, and say hi to the family,

Heather

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