My sister Bonnie was about ten years old when she tried to sell raffle tickets to our neighbor, Bill. Bill kept chickens and offered to buy the whole book if she would accept a chicken in payment. He meant a roasting chicken and he asked my sister to pick out the one she wanted. She picked out a rooster. Our neighbor was surprised but he thought it was okay, because he had a few spare roosters. So Bonnie came home carrying a beer case with a rooster’s head peeking through.
My mother was not amused because she had to pay for the entire book of tickets and didn’t even get a roasting hen out of the deal. But Bonnie loved that rooster which she named Mitchell. He would jump up into her arms and she would pat him and coo and he would cluck back. They were very fond of each other. But that damn rooster was not fond of anyone else in the family, including me, Bonnie’s older sister. Even the dog, a wonderful pointer named Red, disliked the rooster.
The rooster lived outside. When I came home from school, I swear that bird knew I was walking into the yard. He would chase me and peck at my legs and sometimes it would hurt. I would run up to the door and bang on it shouting, “open the door mother, open the door”, which was always locked in case of rapists and undesirables. Sometimes I had to pound on both the front and the back door or go around the house twice. Needless to say I disliked Mitchell.
On Christmas day, the rooster made a very bad decision. He went for the dog’s bone, while Red was gnawing on it. The dog, a pointer, normally of a calm and unflappable disposition, lost his temper, and lunged for the rooster with his mouth open, grabbing some tail feathers. The rooster flapped his wings and flew into the open back door of our house, while an angry Red followed. The rooster flew right through the house to the living room and ended on top of the Christmas tree with Red barking up a storm right behind him.
The rooster was flapping around at the top of the tree, while the dog was lunging after him in the branches, which caused the tree to fall over breaking many of the beautiful ornaments. My dad who was snoozing in his easy chair woke up with a start. He grew up on a farm and was unintimidated by animals. When he woke to the fracas at the Christmas tree, he leaped out of his chair and grabbed Red’s collar in one hand and some part of the rooster in his other hand, all the while shouting at me to open the front door.
I obeyed and dad threw the dog out with one swing of his left hand and the rooster with his right. Then he slammed the door growling, “Damn rooster.” I dared to hope something might be done about that bird and my wish came true. Within two weeks the rooster was gone. Dad gently explained to Bonnie that the rooster was too wild and had been sent to a farm where he could roam freely. I secretly thought that was too good for him.
A few years later I learned the truth. A friend of dad’s had taken him home and eaten him for dinner. He said the bird was a bit tough despite a sojourn in the stew pot. A slow smile crept across my face. Dad had heard many rooster complaints but until the conflict at the Christmas tree had never been involved. In a manner of speaking, the rooster cooked his own goose.
