Rooster

I came back from Fond Verrettes yesterday evening to find this fine-looking red rooster in the yard. He was tied to a piece of wood by a string around his leg. With little sympathy for the rooster, whose days were surely numbered, I knew it was going to be a long night for me. The only thing worse than a rooster outside your bedroom window is a donkey: "bray" just doesn't convey the awful, cut-to-the-bone noise a donkey makes at all hours of night.
At 1:30 am the rooster began to crow. The sun was nowhere in sight. I resent anyone who says roosters begin to crow in the early morning. Even a dairy farmer doesn't consider 1:30 am to be early morning.
Both the rooster and I made it through the night, and the red rooster is to be butchered this afternoon. I can't say I'm unhappy.
I asked Genese if she'd be able to wash my clothes today. She said she wouldn't be able to because she had to wash the floors and then kill the rooster. When is the last time someone told you they were too busy, they had to kill a rooster?