The Rooster

by Katie on December 16, 2010

Somewhere early in the week (Sunday/Mondayish), after working long, hard hours that were beginning to take their toll and placing us at our wits’ end with each other, we were having some, well, not over-the-moon-for-you-right-now type of conversation. Of all things, related to the dogs and who fed them/put them up/let them out/cleaned their pens/etc. last and at the right time/wrong time and in the right way/wrong way.

Because that’s how petty things get when you’re worn out. Physically and relationally. And thank goodness, we can have a good laugh about all that silliness a mere few hours after it occurs.

But anyway. Back to the dogs.

In the middle of all this, I receive the following text message:  “There’s a dead rooster YOUR blue lacy drug in the front yard. Might want to get rid of it.”

Which received the following response from me:  “Actually, YOUR bluetick killed it earlier today. Forgot about it.”

Which he had. I was home when it happened. I heard all the commotion, saw the chicken was in our yard (rather than our dog in the chicken’s), and went on about my business because we were both running around like, pardon the expression, but chickens with our heads cut (or ripped, you know, whatever) off at the time anyway. So I let Wilbur do his thing, fully suspecting what was to come.

As I was peeling out of the driveway a few minutes later, I glanced in the rear-view mirror to see Wilbur perched happily over his latest kill, which had been brought right up to the front porch like a prize. Because that’s what he does. Sometimes he’s so proud he brings dead birds (blackbirds, pigeons, others dumb enough to linger on the ground in our front yard for a few extra seconds) right to the front door.

Anyway, on Tuesday or Wednesday, we actually both ended up walking in the door at the same time at some point during the day, and Brandon said, “You know that rooster is still in our front yard, right? It probably has maggots by now.”

“Yeah…”

“So, are you going to take care of it or just wait until a neighbor comes to claim it?”

“Well, I’ve been meaning to, but…” and then, an epiphany, “Hey! That’s a Man Job!”

Brandon, smiling, “I was wondering how long it was going to take you to say that.”

“So why weren’t you just a man about it, and go ahead and take care of it, instead of waiting for me to tell you it was a man job?”

“I don’t know. I guess I just really wanted to see how long it would take.”

“Okay, so you’re going to take care of it, right? I don’t have to go scoop up a dead rooster?”

“No, I won’t make you go get the dead rooster.”

But you know where that rooster is? Still in front of the front porch. (I’m not complaining here. My hard-working husband was farming for a full 20 hours yesterday/today.) I’m just glad it’s off my back.

And that taking care of dead things is officially a man job. Even Brandon said so.

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