Fernando O’Connor

Elvis has left the building. Well, he’s not named Elvis. It’s Rusty. And Henny Penny and the former sicko Rory. They’ve all gone back to that great chicken coop in the yard. It’s a sad day for me. No more lizard-footed critters drifting into the kitchen at 4:00pm while I make my afternoon espresso. No more little piles of Quaker oats or pools of drizzle poo on the laminate. (There’s a country song in there somewhere). And at least until it gets brutally cold again, no more roosters sitting on my lap while I watch the tube.

Yeah, yeah, I’m eccentric. I’m turning into a wizened old Mexican dude in a lacquerless wooden chair petting his prize fighting cock while everyone else has a siesta. I can feel the wrinkles forming, the sharpened talons on my dusty jeans. The Corona sweating more than my furrowed brow in the noon day sun. A little Sergio Leone cranked on my iPod.

OK, OK, enough of that. Yeah, it’s a sad day, but at least there won’t be any more cockerels ripping the fabric of the early morning with their chest-busting crows. I swear, the little gaffers think they’re nine feet tall. And yeah, they really do have lizard feet.

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