SERGEANT MAJOR ROOSTER RED HEAD - "COCK OF THE WALK"

Sergeant Major Rooster Red Head Crowing Orders

          While Garry Clark and I have been dismantling Glenn McLean's little old barn, duroid by duroid, board by board and nail by nail, we were constantly on our guard, looking over our shoulders, between our legs and in between the boards concerning the whereabouts of Glenn's rooster; he is definitely the "cock of the walk".  I don't know who came up with the expression, "don't be a chicken", the definition being: a coward; someone who is not daring or willing to take risks; a person with little self-confidence; because that doesn't describe Glenn's pesky little rooster at all.  He doesn't have any of those traits; just the opposite.  He's fearless as he struts around the barnyard with a John Wayne swagger, barks orders like a Sergeant Major, meticulously preens his feathers and sticks out his chest as if expecting to have a medal pinned on it at any moment.  Since Glenn served in the military for many years, I wouldn't doubt for a minute if he gets up in the morning before the crack of dawn and blows "reveille" with a shiny bugle while the Canadian flag is hoisted skyward; awakening and assembling his troops - the next in command being Sergeant Major Rooster Red Head.  I can see them now - Glenn McLean standing at attention as he salutes the rooster and his troop of Rode Island Reds as they march in an orderly fashion past the flag pole, "Hup two, three, four - arms high, three, four!  You there, fourteenth from the end; straighten those wings and stick out your chest - hup two, three, four!"

          Rooster Red Head definitely wasn't too pleased as the barn became smaller and smaller and that's probably the reason he attacked me - deduced that I was the enemy; most likely parachuted in during the dead of night and began destroying his barracks.  Even though he attacked me from behind when I wasn't looking, I wouldn't say he was cowardly - it was good military strategy on his part - I mean who in thier right mind, in comparison, would attack face to face a monolithic giant holding a steel crowbar in one hand and a huge hammer in the other, when all they have for weapons is two large spurs attached to their legs - hand to hand combat is out of the question.
          Remembering back to a time when I owned a small acreage in Nanaimo, BC, I once had a rooster similar to Glenns; the exception being, he was all black and if memory serves me right, so was his heart.  I don't know why, but that rooster constantly and relentlessly attacked me and it didn't matter if my back was turned or not.  He'd sometimes fly off his roost; long spurs aimed right at my jugular; I expect he aimed to kill me.  And for the life of me, I don't know why he hated me so because I always gave him and his wee horde of hens lots of room, fed and watered them daily, cleaned out their coop and always made sure they were safe from any sneaky predators that prowled around at night.  Deciding I'd show the cocky little black-hearted rooster who the real "cock of the walk" of the barnyard was, I walked towards him one day.  As expected he flew at me with his long spurs aimed with venom and I grabbed him in midair by his neck.  Not wanting to break his neck, only teach him a wee lesson, I spun him inside my hand for a turn or two like a ferris wheel and then flicked him onto the ground with a thump.  I can still see that dizzy old rooster as it reeled and staggered around the yard like I'd pumped him full of rum but can you believe it, as soon as he regained his stature and confidence, he attacked me again.  Like some people I know who have a major learning disability; just seem to keep bumping their heads, never learning to duck, that old black-hearted rooster had the same problem.  I won't eloborate on his demise, let's just keep it military, Colonel Saunders would have been proud of me - let's just say he was finger-licking good.