As someone who has had chickens in her life pretty much from infancy on , I ’ve take heed of and witnessed firsthand some incredible stories involving intrepid , curious and endearing hen and cock . I ’ve often considered writing them all down somewhere and write them as a script .
Of of course , the moment I adjudicate to do that , two roosters start battling it out . Or a biddy runs across the lawn cackling or some other distraction occurs , and the creative spark extinguishes until the next time .
I may still write that book someday . For now , here are three of my favorite stories to divvy up with you .
Pepito the Postal Rooster
When I was a little girl , my grandmother ’s neck of the woods was very nigh knit — almost a family . The neighbor from across the street would wave and call to us as she hung her laundry out to dry out on her rooftop . The older valet de chambre who attend out at the box store always lifted their hats in greeting to me whenever I stop by for an ice ointment with my granddaddy .
And the lady next doorway … well , she had Pepito .
Pepito was a boney shuffle - breed rooster with a floppy single comb and spruce yellow legs . All of the resident in the neighborhood , including my grandparent , keep several chickens . But those dame were confined to the backyard and courtyard area of each house .
Not Pepito . He was permit to saunter wherever he wanted .
Pepito seemed to know what his barriers were . He never ventured beyond the intersection with the main road , and he always returned home before sunset . From mid morning to dusk , however , Pepito betray around . None of us , including my grandmother ’s neighbor , knew when the rooster would pop up .
I kept some pieces of bread ( snuck from my grandmother ’s kitchen ) in my pocket , ready to offer the little cock a treat should I see him .
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The only time that any of us have intercourse where Pepito would be was when the mail immune carrier arrived . I no longer remember the humans ’s name . I do remember that he would cheerfully recognize every house physician by name as he stopped by each logic gate to extradite letters and parcels he carried in his brown leather pocketbook . And , at his heels , there ’d be Pepito .
The scrappy rooster seemed to watch for the mail carrier ’s arrival at the far end of the street . He would then clip alongside the man , pausing at each gate as ring mail was exchanged , then moving along to the next house . When the mail newsboy reached the terminal house , Pepito would triumph a perky goodbye to his postal - doer , waiting until the man had turned the recess before scampering off to who knows where .
in reality , one of the neighbor did indeed experience where Pepito disappear to : the woman who inhabit across from the corner computer memory . Her house was the last theater on the street , the last house both Pepito and the mail postman visited .
One afternoon , my grandmother came home a little out of sorts after make up a call on this neighbour . It appeared that the woman ’s three layers had all just hatched nestfuls of wench . ostensibly Pepito had made a special delivery to this triad of hens .
To this day I ’m still not certain why my grandmother was bent out of embodiment about this . I guess she expected Pepito to only Margaret Court one biddy , not all three !
Pittsburgh-Bound Poultry
A few years ago , several payload truck arrived in Pittsburgh , hale loads of gravel from a quarry in Indiana . When the trucks workers unloaded , they discovered a surprisal : A piddling rooster had jerk a ride amongst the rock .
The rooster seemed nonplussed by his 500 - mile trip . He hopped down and start to scratch up the ground , looking for nutrient . Whenever one of the actor sample to approach the bird , he ’d bitch and dash out of scope , then return to his scratching once the proletarian backed away .
Nobody know incisively what to do with the small shuttle . There was no direction to touch his owner back in Indiana . For all they knew , he might not have an owner . He could have been a son wench secrete to the wild by a microflock possessor prohibit from have roosters .
The little traveller spent his day explore around the crushed rock hatful , hunting for insects and soaking up the sunshine . He ’d crow every now and then to prompt mass that he was still there . He resist all effort at capture , and no one quite have it away where he shelter for the dark , just that he was n’t causing any problems .
The owner of the crushed rock yard in conclusion decide it plainly was n’t a good idea to have a cock wandering around . Perhaps he was afraid that the poor raspberry might get mowed down by an oncoming motortruck . perhaps he was concerned that the rooster would hop onto a truck make water a local delivery .
Whatever his reasons , the rooster had to go . The owner address a local fowl husbandman , who get along and , after a stack of chasing , cornering and grabbing , finally caught the chicken . The rooster became part of the sodbuster ’s flock , his traveling days at an remainder .
Pepper’s Balancing Act
My protagonist Chris loves his chickens . He restrain a little stack on his acreage in westerly Pennsylvania and oft posts photos of them on his Instagram history . Each bird is thoughtfully call , and Chris can pleasantly recount tales of each soul ’s antic .
We swapped chicken stories recently and Chris apportion the story of his cock , Pepper . A singular small guy , Pepper had a fascination for anything red-faced . He was n’t like a bull charging a matador ’s cape . Pepper just loved the color and would gravitate toward anything any shade of crimson .
One day , Pepper was wandering around the yard whenhe catch sight of a red objecthe had never seen before . When Chris looked out , to his entertainment he saw Pepper perched on top of a bounce testicle — the variety sold in supermarket and department stores — balancing as if he were a carnival act .
Pepper laid claim to the red clod . Chris had no problem lease the little rooster have it .
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In fact , Chris train Pepper to do a trick with the ball . Chris would call out , “ Pepper , go get your ball ! ” then toss the Lucille Ball into the yard . Pepper would then chase the testicle down and perch on top of it .
Both Chris and Pepper had great fun with this magic … until the day Pepper gripped the formal with his talons too tightly and deflate it . For the next few day , Pepper would amble over to the deflate heap of ex - ball and poke at it , as if telling his toy to get up and wreak . Poor Pepper !
Several days later , Chris ’ wife came home from errand and asked where Pepper was . When Chris indicate that Pepper was out back in the railway yard , she channelise outdoors and called out , “ Pepper , go get your testicle ! ”
Then , from a shopping bag , she pulled out a brand - new red kickball , the durable sort used in elementary schools and that could stand up to a rooster ’s talon . Pepper was tickle to have a new reddish bollock friend , and Chris — and his wife — could once again revel their rooster ’s reconciliation act .
