My brother Bob had a pet rooster when we were kids. It was almost like his son, because he brought an egg home from the neighbor’s house and hatched it under one of his pet pigeons. (Yes, we did live on Tobacco Road, why do you ask?) It was a feisty little red banty rooster, and loved to play-fight with our fox terrier, who managed to barely escape Rooster’s long claws every time.
My sister wasn’t much of a bird fan. In fact, sometime after seeing Alfred Hitchcock’s classic The Birds, she became afraid of even our pitiful parakeet, Reject. She was, however, model-slim and pretty, and had a job as a front-office receptionist which required her to be dressed up, made-up, and perky. One day she dashed for her car, late for work as usual, just as Rooster came around the side of the house. I don’t know if it was because he knew she had a bird phobia, or because she was running, or just because, but he ran for her and started doing his cock fighting thing on her legs. First he put runs in her nylons, which was bad enough, but then he drew a dribble of blood.
Sister didn’t take it well at all. In fact, you might even say she became hysterical. The screams and shrieks caught the attention of the rest of the family, including our Other Brother, the dapper hipster who was quite the fan of the famous hep cats of the day: Bobby Darin, Frank Sinatra, Sammy Davis Jr. and the like.
We all ran outside to see what was the ruckus, and arrived just in time to see Other Brother stride confidently up to Sister, stand squarely in front of her, and deliver a good hard slap to her cheek.
What were simply blood-curdling shrieks now became a keening that could wake the dead, a wail that sounded as if it was coming from somewhere deep underground. You could hear wolves in the distance joining in with their howls, and all along the street, windows shattered as the sound floated on the air. Finally Dad took Sister in hand and escorted her back to the house as we kids looked on in wonder at the scene.
Older Brother didn’t move from his spot on the driveway, but stood shaking his head and looking puzzled. “I don’t get it. Every time Robert Mitchum or Bobby Darin slaps a hysterical broad, she shuts up and says, ‘Thanks. I needed that.’”
These are the thoughts that run through my head as I wonder whether I should add a rooster to my little flock.
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LOL!!! .. my friend has a rooster or three, but the one who rules the roost is a bantam who goes by the name of Mr Attitude. He struts around the farm with his Beeatches (hens) in tow, keeps them all in line, and terrorises the other two roosters (big bird and foghorn respectivly)- both at least 3 times bigger than him – if they so much as LOOK in his direction. Very funny.
I like your face slapping brother! I have been wanting someone to try that technique on my 13 year old daughter…she can go from 0 to hysterical in 2 seconds flat!!
Oh, 13-year-old girls. The drama!
I am not sure I want/need a rooster. I do like that they guard the hens, but I don’t want them guarding the hens from me!
I think that every teenager girl needs to be slapped a time or two:) Of course, boys need a daily beating! Ok, I’m kidding. . kind of.
I actually have felt like I needed a good slap a few times and I even pictured myself thanking the “Slapper” and telling them I needed that!
hilarious! My babies are only 3 weeks old and I’m watching closely for the emergence of a rooster with attitude in my guaranteed all-hen order.
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