Death of a rooster

The rooster was a Rhode Island Red, and he was a thing of beauty. When the sun shone on his feathers in the morning, he looked incandescent.

Although a handsome fowl, he was without a doubt one of the meanest roosters we’ve ever had, and gathering eggs or scattering feed was a risky business.

He didn’t have a name. Our first nameless rooster, but he knew who he was. He was a sneaky devil, a demon and a rooster with a mission.

Every living thing that moved was his sworn enemy, apart from his lovely ladies, the flock of hens.

He was old for a rooster. Most chickens don’t live beyond eight years. We’d had him a while, a gift from a friend who thought he was a pullet. But as he matured, it became clear he was another gender altogether.

He enjoyed greeting the dawn and would crow from atop an upturned bucket.

Two days ago, he didn’t crow. It has become such a part of morning routine we didn’t make note of

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