That crowing rooster from next door came here to visit so Coco now wants her very own chicken. This would never have happened if I was living in the ‘Escape the 80’s House’, but honestly, I’m pretty sure I’d miss things like that. And walking down the road like I did last night after 10:00 PM without a worry that I’d be mistaken for a potential burglar or suspicious character that warranted a call to the police. And I felt safe. The rooster? Not so safe. If Libby or Gracie get an eyeball on walking poultry you can bet shit just got real.
Now if you don’t know me and you’re reading about a rooster in the yard, you might have this mental image of chickens roosting on dilapidated paint-worn 1958 Chevys dripping with thin white poop and littering the yard — and maybe even worry that histoplasmosis is so thick in the air you might catch it just by reading this post. You would be wrong. The owners of said rooster live in a very nice, modern two-story home and no doubt have that bird because they want to… and because they can. While I don’t want chickens, they probably don’t want big dogs either — and that’s just fine. They are a wonderful family and fabulous neighbors with or without that darned crowing rooster.
Someone once called me “country folk” as an insult. I admit it sort of shocked me. Not because this person has yet to figure out it doesn’t really matter if a person lives 10 minutes from the Vegas strip or 10 miles from the nearest McDonalds (or both!) — that’s called geography — but because I had a hard time wrapping my head around why anyone would assume they are better than I am or more successful than I am or smarter than I am, etc… just because I choose to have a home in a small town. (Which also reminds me of the countless times my brother and I heard Mom harp, “You can’t judge a book by its cover.”) Believe it or not, we actually have indoor plumbing and don’t need a match to turn on the lights around here. Even if we lacked those basic comforts, it wouldn’t change the fact that making fun of others is ugly — no matter how you do it, why you do it, or what ammunition you use to try and do it.