Rooster!

I wouldn’t say I’m not entirely a bird person, but chickens kind of freak me out. Unless of course they are sautéed in some butter and garlic and served with mashed potato.

Their knobbly clawed feed and skin tagged faces remind me of a great-grandparent that once told me a Fisherman’s Friend was a lolly, and their tendency to flap and squawk whenever I go near them just gives me the idea that the feelings may be reciprocated. And don’t get me started on their attitudes; higher than mighty, beak in the air as they poop all over the place and sporadically pop out an egg or two. No, chickens are not high on my list of desirable pets, no matter how much breakfast protein they can produce..

My next door neighbour has a Rooster called BFC. Please don’t ask me what that stands for as it isn’t printable but I betcha you could probably guess. Anyway, this Rooster is truly evil. Three is valid reason to believe he is some kind of combination of a pre-menstrual women, a homicidal maniac and a hormonal teenager. He has no specific MO, he is not selective of who he chooses to feel his wrath, in fact he terrorises both his owners, all the kids in the neighbourhood, and probably most of the adults, provided they aren’t wearing jeans and sporting some sort of heavy duty PPE (personal protective equipment) they can purchase from an artillery shop.

Any time we go to the neighbours house, it is a reconnaissance mission. The car is switched off, and there is silence all round whilst we analyse the yard for any sign of BFC. We always try and park as close to the front door as we can. From afar, we probably look like we are trying to avoid landmines or swooping magpies as we carry our able-bodied, wide awake children into the house, their eyes darting around like sheepish criminals, trying to detect any sign of the vicious man-chook. Once I was physically holding both boys over my head whilst trying to get them inside, only to be subjected to some kind of sadistic bone-deep facial as this horrible cockerel pecked and scratched his welcome (or maybe not so welcome) into my legs. And it would appear I (and the rest of our neighbourhood) am not the only ones who have decided life with BFC is just too hard to handle. After all, he doesn’t provide eggs and I doubt even the lady chickens would go anywhere near him, unless they had some weird penchant for super aggressive breeding practices. I’ve occasionally heard him ring out the usual rooster morning call, but even that is somehow done with a side of nasty, either super early (“Cock-a-doodle-doo! It’s still dark but I’m gunna wake up EVERYONE in your house and then go back to sleep”) or about an hour after you should’ve been out of bed (“Cock-a-doodle-doo slacker! Was going to be efficient and be your back up alarm but nah! Now you’re late for work sucker!’). Apart from being the world’s biggest a-hole of a rooster, he’s really not good for anything else.

Our neighbour has been asking around who would like a rooster, or, on the side, who would like the contract on his life………………………… So if anyone is wanting a Rooster with deep seated anger management issues and have nerves of steel and several pairs of lead-lined, non-penetrable pants, let me know!

Jody Allen is the Chief Editor of www.stayathomemum.com.au. You can follow her on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/StayHomeMum