You can take the girl out of Spenard but you can't take Spenard out of the girl.
September 24, 2007
The calendar may say it's fall but, with daytime temps still in the mid-80s, it feels like summer to me.
I've been working on cleaning up a grove of trees behind the house that separate my place and the neighbor's cow pasture. Clearing out the dead wood, cutting the kudzu out of the trees, thinning the brush. Going to put up a permanent line for air-drying my laundry. It'll also be a perfect place to put up a hammock someday.
Been finding all sorts of interesting insects back there. Large nocturnal bugs sleeping beneath tree stumps. Those creepy walking stick bugs that startle the hell out of you when you find one crawling up your arm. Colorful caterpillars, some caught in the process of building their cocoons.
The winner of cutest bug ever went to Eumorpha pandorus, an adorable pink caterpillar with a thin curly tail. Since my camera issues won't be resolved until next month, here's a photo from BugGuide.net.
It looks like a tiny ten-legged pig with a clitoris for a head.
The ten remaining chickens are doing well. The predator responsible for the Frankencoop Massacre hasn't come back. I will say I think I was wrong in thinking the responsible party was a red fox. Apparently foxes aren't real big on climbing and the point of entry was about seven feet off the ground. Chances are, the real killer was actually a bobcat.
I'm getting two to three eggs a day from the flock. I gotta start eating more eggs. I currently have two dozen eggs in my fridge. Time to make a mess of egg salad.
The laying hens have decided to keep the tradition of bathtub chickens alive by exclusively laying in the old bathtub that's in the coop (in what used to be my grandma's bathroom). Since the bathtub seems like a safe place for their nests, I'm encouraging the behavior. If they keep it up, I can put off installing more nesting boxes until spring.
One hen has gotten it into her mind that she wants to hatch some eggs. She's laying on eggs that aren't even hers. I'm not sure if she moves the other eggs into her nest or if the other hen (or hens) are just laying in the same nest. I was originally going to let her hatch them but figured I'll wait until spring. I'm not sure how well small chicks would do when the weather gets colder. So instead, I take all but one or two of the eggs out of her nest everyday.
Poor Cheepacabra is still bearing the brunt the roosters' lustful attentions. The other day I was at the coop for about fifteen minutes and, in that short time, saw her get it from both Gimpy and Barabajagal.
With Joshua gone, Gimpy has taken on the position of alpha male. Barabajagal is content with sloppy seconds and Gimpy is content to let him have them.
I was a bit worried about Gimpy's ability as a lover when I watched one of his first post-Joshua coital bouts with Cheepacabra. He mounted the hen backwards, grabbed her tail feathers in his beak and proceeded to bang away at the back of her head. Poor Cheepacabra just sat there, resigned to the head-humping. At least Gimpy seemed to get something out of it.
September 19, 2007
Lost two chickens today. There were twelve when I let them out of the coop and into the adjoining pen at 8am this morning. When I went back to the coop at 3pm, there were only ten in the pen. I checked inside the coop but couldn't find the other two. I looked at the chickens and tried to figure out who was missing.
There were the two roosters, Gimpy and Barabajagal. The Cheepacabra was present and accounted for as well as the unnamed black hen that lays green eggs. There's three similar-looking hens who I have trouble telling apart - I call them The Three Biddies. There's also another group of four similar-looking hens, given to me by one of the Boomhauer Brothers, that I refer to as The Greys. But there were only three Greys now. That meant the other missing chicken was the smallest hen that I'd affectionately dubbed Wee'Un.
I stepped out of the coop thinking If something broke in here, why didn't I see any sign of a scuffle or break-in? That's when I noticed all the feathers on the ground, including a large clump of feathers that I recognized as coming from one of The Greys.
I followed the trail of feathers around to the front of Frankencoop. Close to the building, I found the majority of what was left of the departed Grey. It wasn't much. A wing attached to the ribcage. The tail end of the hen that holds the oil gland. More loose feathers. Ants were already scavenging the remains.
There was another pile of feathers twenty feet in front of the building, but nothing that definitively told me which hen they belonged to. I also found more feathers next to the side of the building and I could see a trail of feathers going beneath the building. Some feathers at that scene were easily identified as the Grey's.
I used a flashlight to look under the building but couldn't see much. I wanted to stick my head in the crawlspace for a better look but didn't dare because this is the most unstable part of the building.
Remember, Frankencoop is built from the remains of the house my great-grandparents built. Earlier this year, I removed the rotted front wall of the house, exposing two rooms to the elements. I also removed half of the east wall as well as the support column that held up one corner of the house - the corner I didn't dare crawl beneath.
When I had removed the column, I expected that portion of the roof to collapse, but it didn't. Months later, as if by magic, it's still in the air. But it's slowly dipping downwards. I've been planning on tearing down the front half of the roof later this fall when it's cooler and I don't have to worry about snakes, wasps and other creepy crawlies. I have yet to figure out how to tear down half the roof without killing myself in the process. Part of me hopes it just falls down on its own before then.
I never did find anything I could positively identify as Wee'Un. I felt bad about the Grey, but I felt absolutely horrible about Wee'Un. I really liked that hen. She was very friendly and didn't mind being handled. She was second only to Cheepacabra. I used to tell Wee'Un (yeah, I talk to my chickens - what of it?) I'd never eat her because she was so small it wouldn't be worth the trouble.
I'm just glad whatever it was didn't get Cheepacabra. Christ, that would've sucked. I like that chicken more than my cats. Sometimes I think I should just get her a chicken diaper and let her live in the house with me. But Angela warned me that becoming the crazy chicken lady is even worse than becoming the crazy cat lady.
I spent some time shoring up the chicken pen's weak spots. It seems as though the killer broke in at the top corner of the pen. The tarp cover was loose at the corner. I had just retied that corner on Saturday, but apparently didn't do a very good job.
I was surprised that the attack came in broad daylight. Most predators around here are usually nocturnal, but I keep the chickens locked up safe and tight in the coop at night. Today's massacre definitely wasn't the work of a cat or dog. My money is on a red fox.
I never heard a thing. If I'd heard the ruckus, I might have made it down there in time to at least keep whatever it was from coming back for seconds. Frankencoop is about 500 feet from the house and there's a bunch of trees between the two. I usually can't hear the chickens if I'm inside or behind the house. If anybody out there has an old baby monitor with a range of 500+ feet, let me know. I think I could put it to use.
September 18, 2007
I was out in the garden yesterday, digging up sweet potatoes. I was looking underneath the leaves for signs of potatoes erupting from the ground. I spied one and thrust my bare left hand into dirt to wrench the potato loose. I was just about to stick my other hand in to search for a second potato when my left hand began to burn. I turned to see my hand (and potato) covered in fire ants.
Those damned fire ants had built a mound around those particular potatoes and I had thrust my naked hand directly into the center of it! I dropped the potato like - well, like a hot potato - and did a silly little dance in the potato patch, frantically brushing the ants off my hand.
The entire incident took only about 10 seconds but I had already been stung about 20 times. Most of the stings were on the back and palm of my hand. There were a few on my wrist and one tenacious little bastard made it all the way to my elbow. (Fire ants only bite to get a good grip. Then, like wasps, they plunge their stinger into your skin.)
Almost immediately, itchy red welts began to form. Initially, they looked like mosquito bites but eventually my entire hand began to slowly swell. By this morning, it had swollen to the point where bones and veins were no longer visible on the back of my hand. White pustules appeared where I'd been stung. It looked like a pudgy, hammy fist covered in zits. Attractive, eh? It also itches like hell. Guess I'll be more careful next time I go plunging my hands into the dirt.
And no - there are no photos of my hand to share with you. The camera issue is still unresolved. My plan of action is long and boring so I won't go into it. Suffice to say, it will either be taken care of this week or I'll have to wait until next month when I can afford to buy a new memory card and card reader.
Okay, now onto the question many of you are waiting to be answered: How did Joshua taste?
It was a bit of an ordeal to cut the chicken into pieces - drumsticks, thighs, wings, breasts, etc... I'd never done that before. Up until now, I usually bought my chicken already cut up. I can't say I did a great job of it. Not nearly as neat and orderly as pre-packaged chicken but, for a first attempt, it was acceptable.
I first cooked about half of him in a Mexican red mole sauce, simmering him in a skillet on the stove for about an hour and a half. The meat was a little tough - as I'd been warned a rooster of that age would be. But it was tasty. I can't quite put my finger on the difference in taste between an organic chicken and one bought in the grocery store, but it is different. It was the same taste of the chicken I butchered a few months ago (as you may remember, that chicken died of an injury - I did not kill it myself). I kind of wished I had a store-bought chicken to do a side-by-side comparison.
I served Joshua with a side of grilled eggplant, carrots, tomatoes and a plate of warm flour tortillas . I finished the meal with a big helping of watermelon. I rarely sit down to eat multiple course meals anymore - usually opting to just wrap a bunch of stuff in a homemade tortilla. Of course, without a nice glass of wine, dinner didn't really feel complete. Instead, I washed the meal down with cold lemonade because that was what I had.
I shredded the uneaten portion of chicken and used it in burritos throughout the week. This helped to disguise the toughness of the meat. Usually I threw in a combination of tomatoes, onions, peppers, sour cream, cheddar cheese and hot sauce.
A couple days later, I cooked up the other half of Joshua. This time I rubbed him in lemon juice, salt and paprika, baking him at a low temperature for three hours. The wings were quite dry and tough so I let the cats have those. I shredded the rest of the meat and used it in wraps filled with tomatoes, cucumber, onion, carrots and ranch dressing.
The remaining bits of Joshua went into the freezer. I will later use them to make soup stock.
While I'm on the subject of chickens: More of the hens have started to lay eggs. They still have yet to get the hang of what the nesting boxes are for. Everyday, it's like I go on an Easter egg hunt - never quite knowing where the hens have hidden their eggs.
I recently found one gigantic egg - about 50% larger than one you would find in the store. I don't know which hen laid it, but all I could think of when I saw it was "Ouch! How did that come out of one of my itty bitty hens?"
I cracked that egg open on Sunday to use in a loaf of peanut butter banana bread (yum!) and was delighted to find it was a double-yolker - the first one I've ever seen.
Well, now that my belly is sufficiently full of coffee and peanut butter banana bread, I'm off to push the lawn mower around for a couple hours.
September 11, 2007
The death of Joshua, Part 2
When I left off, I was walking up the driveway, carrying my freshly killed rooster back to the house for butchering.
It's a pretty long driveway - long enough that I can get the truck up to 30 mph on it. It's more like a short road. I walk up and down this driveway multiple times a day, usually going to and from the chicken coop which is located down by the main road. I often have my eyes down on the ground when I walk. I'm usually looking for animal tracks in the fine dust that settles after long dry spells.
The most common tracks belong to the mice that criss-cross between the woods and garden. Their tails leave long unbroken lines that are dotted on both sides with tiny footprints. I often find raccoon, armadillo and possum tracks. Occasionally there's hoof prints from white-tailed deer or paw prints from the neighbor's dogs. Once in a while I spy the trail of a snake that slithered across. Once in a while, I even get to play "what kind of scat is that?"
After a heavy rain, walking the driveway is almost like beachcombing. You never know what you'll find. A couple weeks ago, I found a silver 1944 quarter that someone dropped decades ago. Once I found a broken arrowhead - a sign of those who lived here long before my family took over the land in the mid-1800s. It's not uncommon to find bits of old glass or broken pottery (not Native American pottery, but locally-made stuff from the '20s and '30s).
But as I walked the driveway this particular morning, neither my eyes nor my mind were on the ground. The sun was minutes away from rising and the sky was clear. I was surrounded by thousands of morning glories which were already beeing greeted by the first bumblebees of the morning. Soon, there would be dozens of butterflies, countless grasshoppers and giant dragonflies
Why is it that beautiful weather is so much more goddamned beautiful when something terrible has happened?
Before I know it, I'm standing at my front door with a warm rooster carcass. It's still dripping a little blood and I've got a little kitchen prep left to do before I bring it inside. Plus, I gotta shoo the cats outside before I even think about putting a big dead bird on the counter.
I look around for a safe place to put the bird for a little while. I spy the old turtle gig I've been using for a flower basket holder. A turtle gig is a long cast iron rod with a hook on the end. It was used for catching turtles - you snag their shell with the hook and flip 'em over. I found the turtle gig in the barn, strapped it to the porch railing and hung a basket of flowers off the hook.
I removed the flowers and pulled the rod out a few inches so the hook was further from the railing. I used a length of string to tie the rooster's feet together and hung them over the hook. It was early enough that flies were not a worry yet.
I went inside and booted the cats out the door. The kittens were still inside but are so small that they're incapable of climbing onto the counter (though they can claw their way up my legs to about knee-level). I filled my largest pot with water and set it on the stove with the heat on low. I set a couple knives on the cutting board. A couple various-sized containers were set alongside. Then I sat down and smoked a cigarette, keeping an eye out the window to make sure the cats weren't fucking with Joshua's corpse.
When the water on the stove was hot - but not boiling - I went outside and took Joshua down off the hook. I put his body on the cutting board and, using the knife that is hidden in the handle of the hatchet Angela sent me, finished cutting his head off. It was already half-off from the hatchet blow.
The plan was to stuff him in the pot so the hot water could loosen up his feathers for plucking. But, even if rigor mortis hadn't already set in, the pot wasn't big enough. I had to dunk him in halfway and then flip him over after a few minutes, pulling feathers while the second half soaked. You never realize just how many feathers a chicken has until you have to pull each one of them out. The feathers went into a large bowl. Each time the bowl filled up, I dumped the feathers into a paper sack. The hot water also softened up the scaly skin on his legs which I rubbed off and threw in a bucket. When I was done, he looked like a beheaded novelty rubber chicken.
I put him back on the cutting board and chopped off his feet. These would be air-dried in the sun for a few days before sending them to Angela.
Then I began the real butchering work. The neck, heart, liver and gizzard went into one bowl. Those, believe it or not, are pretty good eatin'. Stuff like the lungs, kidneys, esophagus, oil gland and intestines went into the bucket with the feet skin. No way am I eating that stuff!
Some say you should starve a chicken for a day before you slaughter it. That way the crop and intestines will be empty when you butcher the bird. I am of the firm belief that, if I am going to kill you first thing in the morning, the least I can do is make sure you don't die hungry. The day before, I made sure Joshua had a damned good last meal. It does call for a little more vigilance in the butchering process, but it helps ease my conscience a bit.
His crop was full of partially digested food. It won't contaminate the meat if you spill the crop's contents on it. The crop is the first stop in a chicken's digestive system. Some say that you can re-feed the crop's contents to your other chickens. Personally, I think that's nasty. The crop mush went into a bowl to later be emptied on the compost pile.
Much greater care needs to be taken with the intestines. This is nothing but a tube full of shit that hasn't been shit out yet. One careless flick of the knife and the meat is covered in chicken shit. Yet, even if the contents spill onto the meat, you can still clean it off. And it's probably still far more sanitary then the conditions in most modern slaughterhouses. But I was careful and removed the intestines intact.
At some point during the butchering process, I threw Joshua's disembodied head into the pot of hot water so I could remove his hackle feathers. When I pulled it out, his wattle and comb had gone from a bright red to a dull grey/maroon. After the feathers were removed, his head went into the bucket with the other inedibles. The bucket then went into the fridge until I could later put them outside in the maggot bucket. The maggots will do most of the skull cleaning for me. I will later boil the skull and sun-dry it for Angela. The maggots will be fed to the chickens.
It took about two and a half hours to go from a healthy live rooster to something that looked like it came from the grocery store. I put his body on a plate, covered it in plastic wrap and put it in the fridge.
I walked down to Frankencoop to check on my remaining flock. I came to the spot where I'd killed Joshua. Feathers littered the ground and the dried blood was swarmed with ants scavenging a nutritious meal. They even covered the quills of nearby feathers. Mother Nature wastes nothing.
The chickens were unusually quiet. They eyed me curiously. Oh God! Do they know what I did? Do they understand what just happened? Or are they just wondering Didn't there used to be thirteen of us? I slinked around feeling guilty as hell as I fed them, checked their water, opened the coop windows and searched for fresh eggs. I gave them half of a fresh watermelon in an attempt to show them I was still one of the good guys.
Eating Joshua would have to wait until the following day. Instead of cooking, I would spend my afternoon cleaning and bleaching the kitchen. I would also pick veggies for the next night's dinner - and a watermelon for dessert.
I'll tell you about dinner next time...
September 8, 2007
The death of Joshua, Part 1
I was up at 4:30 this morning - one of the few times I've set the alarm clock since arriving in Alabama seven-and-a-half months ago. I turned on NPR for the last half hour of a jazz program and made a cup of coffee. I sat down at the computer to check my email and peruse the news. Except for the jazz and ink-black sky, it was just like every other morning. That and the fact, for the first time in my life, I was about to kill a chicken.
I've never actively and purposely killed anything larger than salmon (which was actually larger than the rooster). Right now, I can't even think of having accidentally killed anything larger than a turtle (which I ran over with a car). But now I was contemplating the killing, butchering and eating of a bird that I'd hand-raised since it was a fertilized egg.
He was one of the brown ones.
Joshua was born in my kitchen on April 4, 2007. He was the very first to hatch. My first born, so to speak.
Over the next five months, I watched him grow from a fluffy yellow peep into a feisty alpha male rooster. For the first month, he lived in my bathtub alongside his siblings.
Back then, it seemed impossible to think about killing any of them. They were cute, vulnerable and helpless. How could you not love these little fluffballs?
J Joshua in the middle, resting his head on Gimpy.
Over time, Joshua developed a personality of his own - something that cannot be said of all the chickens.
I feel awful about killing him, but I try to remind myself that he lived a life far grander than most roosters in this country. He got to see the sun everyday. He got to eat lots of fruits, vegetables and bugs. He got to fuck a lot. Except for the eating bugs part, I could've envied his life.
He was a damned fine example of a rooster. He was large, healthy and protective of his flock. The only bad things about Joshua was he liked his sex rough and he didn't like me at all. As time went on, he trusted me the least of the chickens.
When I realized I had three roosters in the flock, I knew at least one of them would have to go. I spent the last couple months contemplating which one would get the literal axe. I really didn't want it to be Joshua. I looked for any sign that he should be the one to be spared. He was such a fine rooster. Surely the axe should fall on the gimpy one or the wussy one. Any savvy farmer would've kept Joshua. But I'm not a savvy farmer by any means. I am the soft, girly-type, more inclined to favor the misfits.
And the two roosters I decided to keep definitely fit that description. The gimpy one, almost a twin to Joshua, has been unimaginatively named Gimpy. The other, the submissive one low down on the pecking order, is named Barabajagal. The name comes from an old Donovan song and I've long considered it a fine name for a rooster - one I've waited to bestow on my favorite.
But this isn't about the other roosters. This is about Joshua.
Joshua was named after the notorious Anchorage scumbag, Joshua Alan Wade. My former roommate, Angela, asked that I name him that. She will be the recipient of the rooster's skull, feet and feathers - all ingredients of some artistic voodoo shit she has in mind. I didn't question. I only complied.
After weeks of putting off the dirty deed, I finally decided it was time to get it over with. I'd already accepted Angela's gift of the hatchet. I'd already named him after Alaska's most recent serial killer. There was no reason to stall any longer.
A little after 5:30am, I assembled my equipment and began the long walk down to Frankencoop. Joshua was very wary of me. The only hope I had of catching him was if he was sleeping. I snuck inside the coop under the cover of darkness to find all the birds fast asleep on their roosts. I turned on the flashlight to pick Joshua out of the crowd. Just at that moment, Gimpy let loose with a loud crow. I froze.
The other birds didn't stir. I turned off the flashlight, jamming it into my pocket. I stepped forward and gently picked Joshua up off his roost. Much to my surprise, he didn't balk. Usually, I can't even get close enough to touch him. But this morning I was able to pick him up without the slightest struggle. I tucked him under my left arm and made my way back outside.
I talked softly to Joshua, running my fingers through the hackle feathers on his neck as I made my way back out to the driveway. I don't remember what I was saying but I do remember that I started to cry. Fuck. I hadn't even pulled the hatchet out yet and I was already losing it. This was not a good start.
I set him on the ground. I didn't use a proper chopping block but, with Alabama in the midst of a hundred-year drought this summer, the ground is as hard as brick. I held him beneath one knee and apologized as I brought the axe down on his outstretched neck.
Maybe his feathers were thicker than I thought. Maybe the ground wasn't as hard as I imagined. Maybe I just swing an axe like a soft city girl. But it wasn't the clean cut I'd hoped for. For the first time, Joshua began to struggle. Maybe it was just those last nerve endings twitching - the ones that'll make a chicken run around after its head's been cut off. I hope that's what it was.
I wasn't about to let go of him. If he did set off running, even if he was already dead, I feared he would take off into the knee-deep kudzu. The last thing I wanted to do was hunt through the brush for a dead rooster in the morning twilight.
I grabbed him underneath my arm and stood up. I grasped his neck with my right hand, pulling it down and then to the side. His wings still kept flapping, his legs kept kicking. I continued to snap his neck, even though it was already broken. By now, it was surely only those dying synapses that kept firing.
Tears were streaming down my face and his blood was pooling on the dry ground. After about 30 seconds, he finally stopped moving. I began the long walk back to the house where I would tackle the task of butchering him. I carried him by his feet, leaving a trail of blood droplets behind me.
Ah...it is late. I'll tell you the rest of the story tomorrow.
September 7, 2007
Man, did I have a shitty night of sleep last night. Woke up at 2:30am with a splitting headache. Tried to get back to sleep but all I did was toss and turn for hours. The headache lingered all day and I just couldn't get motivated to work.
Of course, some things demand doing regardless of how I feel. The garden needed to be watered. Tomatoes and cucumbers had to be picked. The chickens also needed to be fed, watered and let out of the coop.
I was out of chicken feed and had to improvise this morning. Lucky for me, chickens will eat just about anything. For breakfast, I brought them watermelon, cucumbers, tomatoes, dried oats and crushed up ramen noodles.
I later ran into town to pick up a 50-pound sack of feed at the farm supply. I also stopped at the store for some tobacco and five whole dollars of gas. That pretty much wiped me out. I'm currently down to less than a dollar in change. Didn't have enough left over to buy cat food. Guess the cats will be eating venison this weekend. It's funny how the poorer I am, the better the cats eat.
But don't fret, dear reader. I have a few dollars coming in on Monday. I picked up a second housecleaning gig. But I never told you about the first one, did I?
For the last few months, I've been cleaning house once a week for an old man who lives nearby. He's not really that old - only 59. But if I told you he was 79, you'd believe it. His health is rather poor and I don't think he'd cleaned his house since his wife left him six years ago. It took many hours and lots of elbow grease but I finally got his house into a manageable condition. Now I just go over for a couple hours a week and help keep it that way. Afterwards, I usually hang out with him for another hour or so. We drink a couple beers and watch old reruns of The Rifleman together.
So now I've picked up a second housecleaning job. It's for the elderly mother of my cousin's husband. Monday is my first day working for her. I don't know yet how many hours it will be or what exactly she needs done. I also have two other potential cleaning gigs in the hopper. Four or five regular jobs like this should be enough to cover my basic monthly expenses.
Anyway, after returning from town this afternoon, I spent most of the rest of my day lounging on the lanai with a copy of The Autobiography Of Malcolm X.
Hopefully I will sleep better tonight. I'm going to try to get up super early tomorrow - about 4:30am. The plan is to sneak into Frankencoop under the cover of darkness and grab the rooster, Joshua, while he's still sleeping. It's the only way I'm going to be able to catch him. If all goes according to plan, I will be eating chicken dinner tomorrow evening.
September 2, 2007
Still haven't solved the camera problem. Honestly, I haven't spent much time on it these last few days. The daytime temperature finally dropped out of the triple digits down to a much more manageable mid-80s and I've been spending my days working outside again.
When it was so dreadfully hot, I couldn't bear to work much outside past 9:30am. I could get another hour in before dark. Otherwise I spent most of my time indoors, making occasional forays outside when the sun ducked behind the clouds.
So over the last couple weeks, the garden filled with weeds and the kudzu kept growing. The last few days I've been pushing the mower and cleaning up the garden. I can't believe it's already September and I'm still planting stuff.
Dozens of bluebirds have recently descended on Spenardo del Sur. They've been feasting on ripe berries of the polk salad plants that grow wild all over my place. I know they've been eating polk salad berries because all their poop is purple and full of poke salad seeds. There's purple poop on the porch railing, purple poop on the bird bath I made out of junk found in the barn, purple poop underneath the power lines that cross the property. It's everywhere and it's extremely purple.
Since the camera issue is still pending, the rooster is still alive. I wanted to take photographs of turning him into dinner but I may not be able to wait. I don't like him and he don't like me. It's only going to get worse once his spurs grow in. If you're unfamiliar with rooster spurs, imagine being confined in a small space with 6 pounds of territorial bird that has fighting knives strapped to his ankles.
And poor Cheepacabra! My most favorite chicken is apparently also the sexiest chicken because she's constantly getting it from all three roosters. Nine out of ten rooster altercations seem to be about her. Sometimes I wonder if the roosters realize the special treatment I give Cheepacabra and are competing with me for her.
Per Angela's request, I have named the condemned rooster Joshua. She asked that I name him after the Anchorage's murderous scumbag on the loose, Joshua Alan Wade. Joshua is currently wanted by Anchorage cops and the FBI for the disappearance of a local nurse, Mindy Schloss, and the subsequent pilfering of her bank account.
Joshua first came to Anchorage's attention seven years ago when he murdered and raped (yes, in that order) Della Brown, leaving her battered corpse in a shed just around the corner from Rancho Spenardo. It was obvious to everyone in town that he was guilty - everyone except the jury that acquitted him. All that stuck to him was a tampering with evidence charge. Fuck! If I'm ever in trouble, hire me his lawyer!
We all knew it was only a matter of time before he struck again. Murder and necrophilia aren't something you easily get out of your system. I don't even believe Della and Mindy are his only victims - just the only ones we know about.
Anyway, since Angela will be the recipient of the rooster's feet, skull and tailfeathers (for some crazy voodoo rite that I don't want too much information about), I agreed to the name him Joshua. Besides, it may be a little easier to kill the rooster if I'm picturing that evil son of a bitch.
Well, I currently have a couple three and a half week-old kittens gnawing on my toes. Time to get down on the floor and play.
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