The Plot to Kill the American Rooster
Roosters crow at all times of the day and night apparently. I should know, I’ve lived through it. They don’t care that their crowing offends my sensibilities, disquiets my mind, interrupts my thinking, they just keep on crowing and crowing and crowing. Growing out of this perceived intrusion on my peace and quiet, this destruction of my tranquility, I searched for a resolution, an agreement possibly, a treaty, anything to stop the incessant noise. I admit contemplating many solutions, many of which I am not proud. I began gently. Send a letter to the caretakers of said roosters, yes, be civilized and polite, follow protocol. Nothing happened, the Longcrowers practiced on. Slowly the quicksand of discontent slid into more nefarious considerations: How to kill the rooster. Hitchcockian perhaps? Ringing by hand, my grandmother used to do it. Swing from a rope? Gun? Poison? No! Too immoral, illegal, too personal, too presumptuous, I could not live with myself. Maybe nature will take care of it. Where the hell are the coyotes that fight my dogs, the owls that bark in the evening, the snakes that I pull from the bush while they eat baby cardinals?…how long does a rooster live anyway?
Of course, roosters have no self -awareness, no sense of social agreement, they are fucking roosters, doing what roosters do: crow. No respite from my foul fowl nemeses. Patience was waning, American after all, irrational, impetuous, rash. Nevertheless, I waited, listening to the crowing for years and years and years, lamenting. What lament? That I did not give those roosters free range to crow all they wanted, all they needed? That I failed to adhere to an egalitarian viewpoint held for so long? That roosters need to crow, just as much as I need to breathe? So, I let it go. I came to an understanding within; the roosters were gone from my worry. Oh, there is still crowing and crowing and crowing to be sure, but I left it all behind. I listened with resentment no more. Contentment was once more my daily companion. Reflecting on the years of crowing, the perceived offenses, all that wasted time, all the unfortunate conflict. Over crowing! Absurd! Now I see that I should thank the roosters, because without them I may never have rekindled my internal kindness towards everyone and everything. And so ended the plot to kill the American roosters.