Not Even Going to Try to Title This One

Sorry, Y’all. This one needs to start with a few disclaimers.

1. Six-foot metal roosters are awesome.

2. The words chicken, rooster, cock, bird, feathered friend, and poultry are, for the purpose of this little story, interchangeable.

3. The word cock, for the purpose of this little story, always refers to a bird. Get your mind out of the gutter.

4. “Wayne the Weed Guy” isn’t as illegal as it sounds.

5. There may be disclaimers after-the-fact, or disclaimers that should’ve happened but didn’t.

6. The only reason I’m attempting to get away with this story in the form in which I am, is because my Mama is too slow to catch me and spank me anymore. And while she can still, very successfully mind you, give “the look,” I’m 56 years old and she can’t put me on restrictions any more. I think.

Let us begin.

A couple years ago The Lawyer went out of town and I went to The Tractor Supply Store. If you’ve never been to The Tractor Supply, let me just tell you, it’s fab. Everything from work boots to small equipment parts to work wear to baby chicken hatchlings to farm toys to yard equipment to garden supplies to six-foot metal roosters. I’m tellin’ ya, it’s a great place to be. My Gal Pal, Teri, is the one who enlightened me as to the six-foot chicken whereabouts, and we were off to the races. Teri is one of those girlfriends who knows everything about everything and so when you need something like a six-foot bird, you call her.

The evening The Lawyer was out of town, I called The Tractor Supply and inquired of the Feathered Friend’s availability. I was given the affirmative. I then asked more specifically, “do you have one in stock, in your store, can I come get it and load it up,  can I buy it and walk out with it, how many other ways can I ask this?” To which the nice young lady on the phone replied, “ma’am, I know we have one in stock because I am staring at it,” in her driest, most annoyed, why do these middle aged women keep buying these six-foot metal chickens voice. I high tailed it over there – it was almost closing time and I didn’t want to miss my chicken window.

Though at the time I drove what My Ron called “The Winnebago,” a giant cock does not fit in the cargo hold in one giant piece. Thank goodness the bird separates into two pieces. Kinda oddly, but helpfully. Whew.

Got it home, unloaded, pieced back together, and strategically placed where The Lawyer would see it when he parked his ride in the drive.

Except he didn’t.

See it, that is. He was too distracted with putting his sun shade in the front window that he didn’t look beyond. Dang it. He came in the house, put his things away, walked through the room full of windows to the back yard – didn’t see it. Stood at the kitchen sink with a DIRECT VIEW OUT THE WINDOW TO THE MULTI-COLORED POULTRY – didn’t see it.

I was about to bust.

He never did see it, so I had to play it cool. That was hard, y’all. I don’t play it cool very well. Everything about this bird has been a challenge. The next morning I left before he did, so I had to wait. Waiting isn’t exactly my strong suit, either. But then it came. The mid-morning text. I hollered. When he took the sun shade out of his vehicle window he saw it big as day. Oh, what I wouldn’t give to have been in the backyard spying right about then.

We’ve had some fun with that big ole rooster ever since. It even gets to hunker down in the garage when there’s a hurricane coming our way.

But, as of late, we’ve had a little issue with the chicken. It won’t stay erect. Stop it, y’all. I’m serious. We have to put it in the backyard due to HOA rules and such, (apparently six-foot chickens don’t exactly meet the neighborhood aesthetics requirements) so we’re limited on useable ground. And the ground back there is soft. The dirt is the only good dirt we have on the Brooks Barracks homestead, so it’s been a struggle. The dirt on every other square inch of this property is hard as a rock and you could drive an army tank over it with no chance of it cracking. But the back yard? Soft as cotton. Lord help. We’ve moved the bird several times, all with the same outcome – MAN DOWN!!! The Lawyer has tried several remedies to keep the poultry vertical, but with only short-lived success. We move it, re-stake it, have a rain, and it’s once again MAN DOWN!!! I swear, every time I turn around that cock is on the ground. Like a drunken sailor stumbled off the pirate ship and face-planted straight on the beach, face full of dirt and squirrels frolicking about. Ok, maybe not squirrels on the beach, but definitely squirrels in the backyard. So it’s gotten to where after we re-stake the rooster and walk away, it no longer surprises me to see it, once again, on the ground. Rebar, hooks, you name it, nothing keeps it upright. The ground is just too soft. If it rains and the bird topples, and if I know there’s another rain coming, I just leave the poor thing horizontal in the bushes for days, sometimes weeks. I’m sure it feels neglected, but we’ve been doing this for a couple years now, so we all should be getting used to it.

The Lawyer went and got some fancy stakes with hooks on the ends this last time, and we thought we had this little issue licked. We did not, however, have this little issue licked. Within a week or so that dern cock-a-doodle-doo was cock-a-doodle-down. This is becoming exhausting. So there it lay, squirrels investigating, metal toes in the air looking like it had been on an all night bender. And I just left it. It’s “winter” in Florida (we use that term lightly and with “quotation marks” in these parts) which means warm, wet air, and often rain showers. I’m giving up till spring.

But then Monday there was a shift in the chicken universe.

While at work Monday, my phone dinged with a front porch camera alert. There was someone at The Barracks. Who ever could this be? Hoping it was a delivery guy (I may have over-shopped for Christmas) I took a peek, and what to my wondering eyes did appear?

Wayne the Weed Guy.

Now, I’ve never actually met Wayne the Weed Guy, but we’ve a longstanding understanding. He comes and rides his Zamboni around my yard, I send him a check, and I no longer have invasive weeds in my grass.

What did you think I meant when I said “Wayne the Weed Guy”???? Get your mind out of the gutter!

Anyhoo, I was happy to see Wayne the Weed Guy riding the Zamboni. All this damp weather makes the yard ripe for winter weed. We don’t need weed at the Barracks. Wait, did I forget to put the “s” at the end of “weed?” Silly me. Weeds. I meant weeds. We don’t need weeds.

ANY HOO

This is the week before Christmas, and at the Beauty Parlor it’s just outright nuts. Which also means extended hours, and lots more coffee and junk food. Tuesday morning I got up earlier than usual, as I had to be at work earlier than usual, so I grabbed some caffeinated beverage (which I am not supposed to have) and headed to the back porch to consume the heart rhythm destruction nectar. But y’all, it was eerie. The previous rain shower storm, the warm temperatures, the early morning dark, all made for a mysterious phenomenon – Scooby-Doo Fog.

It’s a real thing, y’all.

As first light began to creep into the atmosphere, the heavy fog became more and more evident. Certainly Scooby and the Gang would be arriving soon to solve some mask-removing mystery. But until then, I would sit with my tabletop firepit in mid-level blaze and sip The Joe and catch up on overnight interwebs shenanigans. Time passed, the day was becoming brighter, and it was time to drag into the Christmas treed manse to attempt to make myself presentable for public consumption. Tall task, mind you. As I rose from my comfy back porch hunker-down, I gave a quick survey of the backyard, as there was now enough light to peruse. And what to my wandering eyes did appear, through the thick haze of fog, as though having risen from the ashes like a flame emblazoned Phoenix?

The cock was erect.

Stop it, y’all. I’m serious.

The Chicken was upright! Cue the choir, orchestra, and turn on the spotlight. There, in the edge of the shrubs, big as day, the Bird was high-tailed, standing tall over it’s domain, reigning like the Rooster he is. It was a Christmas miracle.

Or the work of Wayne the Weed Guy. Not sure.

All that mattered was the Chicken was standing and all was well in the backyard hierarchy.

Now, to see how long it’ll last……