Saturday, August 25, 2018

Life With A Big Fat Cock Next Door

We have a fireman that lives next door to us. But it’s “county” next door which means that his home is about 500 yards away from us. And for some reason, whenever his name is brought up around the MIL she goes to the dried-up comedy well again to sing a portion of George Strait’s “The Fireman”. We all roll our eyes, but I sense that those rolling eyes will grow into fully audible groans. It was never really that funny, but she chuckles like a chicken cackling without the squawks as if it’s the funniest thing since Charlie Chaplin.


The fireman next door has the Oliver Wendell Douglas (‘Green Acres’) bug. He is also farming with livestock. He has chickens, sheep, and pigs. And we can hear them when we’re quiet on the back deck. It doesn’t bother us at all. And sometimes we can hear the laughter of his children as they play outside. That happens to warm my dark little heart.

The fireman has been given a rooster. I guess he’s rescued some poor rooster that someone just couldn’t or wouldn’t care for anymore. We hear it crowing from time to time. Again, it doesn’t bother us. But it has been an innuendo fun factory.

Last night on the deck, Bait and Bobbie came over for a short beer visit. The rooster was crowing. I asked, “Did you hear that? The cock was crowing.”

It was a little difficult to hear since the air conditioner was running only 20 feet away from us.

“The fireman’s cock! I hear that it’s a pretty cock. A big fat cock,” I proclaimed. “It sounds like that cock is coming this way!”

I cannot wait to try it out on my staunch Baptist mother the next time that she’s over at our house. That’s going to be fun.

They recently processed a bunch of chickens and by “processed” I mean they were slaughtered and prepared for market. The fireman hired my stepsons to help. I expected to hear all kinds of racket coming from next door. You know, the noise that one expects chickens to make when they know they’ve reached the end of the line. But I didn’t hear anything unusual. And according to my stepsons, it was a humane and respectful process. They also brought some of those processed chickens home. No drugs. No hormones. I suppose that they’re “organic”.

Jamie roasted one that evening and it was indeed a tasty bird.

And it’s cool having a fireman next door even with the tired running gag of the George Strait song being sung every time that his name is mentioned around the house. We have his number and he has insisted that we call him at the first sign of trouble of any kind. I’m guessing that he’s also a paramedic. Emergency responders are a special breed of people. They won’t hesitate to go at a moment’s notice into the unknown when it comes to their own safety. We’re thankful to have him and his family as neighbors.

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