02 January 2005

The Short Life and Unlamented End of Foghorn Leghorn

It wasn't until the first night I slept at my current apartment that I realised there was a huge, loud, fighting rooster right outside my window. Being a rooster, he did what roosters do first thing in the morning. He did that thing over and over again, for ten to fifteen minutes at a stretch, then took a break. Whatever roosters do for a break. Take a little drink, I don't know. Then another aria, and on and on for hours. I haven't slept past 5:30am in months, and neither has anyone else in my house.

I called the rooster "Foghorn Leghorn." I don't know what his owners called him. They probably called him a good payday. You can win a lot of money with a good fighting chicken, and this one was a bruiser.

Anyway, about six this morning one of [shall remain nameless]'s overnight guests, [shall remain nameless], couldn't stand the racket. So he went out and liberated Foghorn. "Be free," he said, and opened the cage to let Foghorn breathe free air at last. Not being an idiot, Foghorn stayed right where he was, with all the free food. So [shall remain nameless] did what any half-drunk, stupid, reckless college kid would do: took the rooster out back and broke his neck.

I slept until 7:30 this morning.

It pains me to be happy about the violent death of any of God's creations. I had fantasies of taking Foghorn out to the countryside somewhere, to seek his fortune. But I do like the extra sleep, and it'll really feel good once school starts. Even if the people next door get a new one, it'll be a while until he's as big and loud as Foghorn, and I'll be gone by then.

So farewell Foghorn Leghorn. I won't say I'll miss you, but you did make life colorful. (Now I have to use an alarm!)

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