Rooster in the Rain

We have a rooster, no he is not ours, but he is a regular visitor.  

He comes with an odd assortment of white hens in attendance.  They are bored minor starlets clustering around the pool of a millionaire.  They would jump at the chance of finding someone more affluent and handsome, or someone really wealthy with a heart condition, but this rooster is the only one within their little world. He is second best, but he has to do. 

The rooster is a shabby shade of dark green, almost a dingy black.  In strong light he has a few gingery feathers in his coat, but the light has to be strong.  On a good day he almost succeeds in looking handsome, he tries to cut a dash,  but any attempt at sophistication is let down by his tailor, an obvious incompetent.  

We have had roosters here in the distant past, a couple that we named Dum Dum and Klutz.  This couple were full of character and worked together as a team; making nests, incubating phantom eggs, and having fights when the hormones got out of control, then huddling together for comfort afterwards, all battered and bloody.  We enjoyed the company of Dum Dum and Klutz, and they mostly left the garden alone.  The current rooster is altogether different.  He, and his horrible hens destroy the garden with ruthless abandon, scattering Spring bulbs, shrubs, and soil, making it look like an open cast mining area.  I fear that they may begin Fracking!  

Avian digestive systems, are converting the rich and costly diet of Laura's flora into great globs of manure which they discharge onto the driveway, paths, our back step, anywhere that a human foot may tread.  I am sure that it is deliberate.  

One of the saddest sights that you could ever see is a rooster in the rain.  It is magnificence bankrupted, majesty brought low.  We have a rooster, and we have rain.  Rain in abundance.  Humidity is 99 percent, and I think that must equate to 99 percent water and one percent breathable air.  Everything is damp.

Last weekend I could not start the car, it was a foggy ruin in the car port.  Theoretically free of direct rain, it never-the-less was clammy with moisture.  I pushed it half out of the car port to give myself room to attend to the motor, and began my work, cleaning electrical wiring, removing the distributor cap and cleaning inside.  Whilst I had my head down in the oily depths, I was aware of being watched.  On turning I saw the rooster, a pace or two behind me.  He was standing in a puddle that he took around with him, he was dripping wet and looked at his most loathsome.

I continued my work, and occasionally chatted to him and found him oddly companionable, and the time passed pleasantly.  Two old fellows cold and wet and struggling with a car that would not start!

After considerable mopping and cleaning, the engine was persuaded to emit a few smoky chuffs, a hesitant trot, then a lumpy-thumpy canter, which later settled into something smoother.  With the car sounding more like a car again, my companion lost interest and shuffled away.  

I suppose there is a chance that the rooster's silent vigil was triggered by some strand of ancient genetic code that linked him to other birds such as vultures and carrion crows. 

It could be that he saw the car as a dying animal that could soon be stripped clean of succulent flesh, but I do confess to finding a spark of affection for him.  

Nigella Stopit, however, finds him completely beneath contempt.

To her he is cat food on two legs that is packaged in an inconvenient form!