Ernie the Rooster, Burritous Interruptus, and Bear the Killer of All Things

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 Story Number 11: Grapes of Irony Number 6

 (Written 9/30/22)

Like all chicks, he started his life endearingly cute.  A downy puff ball with a tawny back and a pale yellow belly.  His name was Ernie.  I was a good chick mother and Ernie and I would ramble around our one acre in search of bugs and other delectables, me moving objects in the yard so Ernie could access the wiggly things hiding beneath.  Ernie would peep excitedly when I checked on him in his makeshift pen, a cardboard box, and he followed me around the house when I took him out of his box. 

However, as Ernie entered teenagehood in his poultry life, things had the inevitable shift.  Ernie grew distant and his demeanor became cold.  It was time for him to move outside with the other chickens, escapees and castaways from the cock farm that bordered our property.  One would hope for some residual fondness from the bonding time we spent together, but it was not to be.  As Ernie matured into a tall, stunning Rhode Island Red with gorgeous iridescent feathers, his spurs on his spindly legs grew and so did his penchant for being an asshole.  I know it was a matter of the testosterone coursing through him and he was just the rooster he was meant to be, but this transformation still sucked on several levels:  1) he showed no fondness for me, 2) he showed no fondness for any other human.  At this time, I lived with my then-husband and my brother and all of us were fair game for Ernie and his prowess for defending what he saw as his territory.  His favorite tactic was to lie-in-wait and ambush us from under our parked cars as we walked through the yard, innocently going about our business.  It was terrifying, seeing a two-foot tall, robust rooster with large, menacing spurs, come hurling out from under the cars, more like a bull, a screeching feathered bull, than a rooster.  And no amount of yelling, screaming or flailing our limbs at him would change his behavior; he was fearless and we were fearful even as we lunged toward him, he would lunge right back at us.

There was someone, however, who thought Ernie was the epitome of masculine ardor, our cat Cooper.  Cooper was infatuated with Ernie and she sought his attention regularly.  We always knew when Ernie and Cooper were in the throes of passion, as they were both very vocal about it, but when Ernie was too rough in his passion, Cooper would cry out in pain.  I know female cats do this when mating, but there was a level that was not to Cooper’s liking, as her swollen and sometimes pecked-shut eye indicated.  The swollen, closed eye and her sperm-encrusted back was just a bit too much to take sometimes.  I counseled her about having some self-respect as I had one-on-one talks with her, and trying to be relatable I admitted that I too liked it rough sometimes, but hey, there are limits.

One day, as I was getting ready for work and just in a t-shirt and underwear, I heard Cooper howling her being terrorized sounds, and that was it!!  I was tired of this!  I grabbed my BB gun, pumping it up as I ran through the house and I bolted outside.  Ernie was perched on Cooper’s back, biting at her ears and pecking her head as he was grinding away on top of her.  I yelled and charged at Ernie, but it was as if I was not even there.  I kicked Ernie to get him off Cooper and he finally dismounted, leaving a pool of his manly slime on Cooper’s back; he swaggered away, looking self-satisfied.  This infuriated me even more and resulted in me adding a few pumps to the gun as I yelled in disgust at Ernie.  He must have felt my anger coming off me in waves and me kicking him must have made him think it was in his best interest to vacate the premises, so he took off running out of the yard and down the street and I gave chase into the street.  I could only imagine what I must have looked like, preshower disheveled, clothed only in my underwear and a t-shirt, toting a BB gun and looking absolutely crazed chasing a rooster down the street; a fanatical poultry hater for sure.  I took aim as Ernie continued to flee.  I surmise he must have had some combat training as he expertly zigzagged back and forth in his escape.  But I too had some training and I steadily tracked him in the sights of the BB gun and I calmly squeezed the trigger on my exhale, and it was a direct hit to his head.  Annie Oakley aint’ got nothing on me.  Ernie went down like a ton of bricks.  As the dust settled, the convulsions came, the wild dance of a chicken in the throes of death.  As Ernie was bouncing and flopping on the side of the road, the local burrito truck just happened to be driving by and anyone who knows chickens would know that Ernie was about to meet his maker; the truck slowed to witness the speckle, but continued on its way.

I did feel bad.  I did not intend to kill him.  I just wanted to teach him a lesson and I wanted him to stop his abhorrent behavior towards Cooper.  But the deed was done and the convulsions slowed and his life ebbed away.  And then he was still.  That was it.  Ernie, the terrorizing Rhode Island Red reprobate, was no more.  I wanted to retrieve his body and figured the boundary of the street should also be my boundary for common decency so I decided to go back in the house and put on some pants and retrieve a body bag.  I swear Cooper looked at me with reproach, with her one good eye, as I passed her.  It was for her own good, I informed her.  I let my husband and my brother know what I had done as I passed through the house.

While I was in my bedroom putting on pants something caught my eye and I saw that the burrito truck was back, driving slowly as it approached Ernie’s lifeless body.  It cruised by, its driver stopping ever so briefly to gaze at Ernie’s very still, but very warm, plump body.  Then I witnessed the truck turn around and make it’s sedate, unassuming, nothing-is-going-on-here approach to our yard.  Vhuh, vhuh, vhuh went the engine as the truck rolled to a stop next to Ernie’s lifeless body.  And I could not believe what I was seeing!!  The door opened with great caution and a hand emerged and reached towards Ernie’s corpse.  I was shocked!  And I was mad!  I may be responsible for Ernie’s demise, but he was still MY chicken!!  I yelled, loudly, out my bedroom window, “LET . . .  THE . . . . CHICKEN . . . . GO!!”  Quickly the offending hand retracted, the door slammed shut and the burrito truck sped away; I could smell the embarrassment and soiled shame of being caught in their exhaust.

I grabbed a bag and went back outside, fully clothed this time, to retrieve Ernie’s body; but it was not there!!!  I looked around in shock.  Had the dastardly burrito truck come back??!  I spun around and saw that Ernie was upright and weaving, like a land-fresh AND drunken sailor, down the road, totally dazed, but very much alive.  And he was heading into our neighbor’s yard, the home of a vicious, notorious, killer rottweiler named Bear.  Bear was known far and wide as the killer of all things.  He had a steady supply of chickens from the cock farm, he killed a good number of our outside cats who were unfortunate enough to walk into his yard and he even killed his own supposed companion, a sweet pit mix dog.  All things were indicating that day was Ernie’s day to die.

I ran back into the house and informed my husband and brother of Ernie’s resurrection and imminent demise (again).  We three ran to the kitchen window where the view looked into Bear’s yard.  I felt at that moment like spectators in the Coliseum must have felt, that weird combination of not daring to look but at the same time compelled to as terror, dread, and excitement vied for front and center attention in my brain and stomach.  We leaned over the sink and craned our heads to watch as Ernie made his approach on unsteady legs, his body still swaying from my expert markswomanship shot to his head.  Bear spotted his next, apparently very easy, victim and moved forward toward Ernie and Ernie, like a man marching resolute toward death row, kept moving forward.  We held our breath as the gap between them grew closer and closer.  And then they met, nose to beak, and there was a pause and we gripped the edge of the sink and held our collective breath for the big moment that was to come.  Bear and Ernie remained motionless, each sizing the other up.  There was a slight move forward by Bear and we gasped, knowing the final moment was nigh.  And then in lock-step Bear turned about and Ernie moved to Bear’s side and they walked down the driveway farther into Bear’s yard, together, side-by-side.  Picture Hitler and Mussolini, walking together, both in uniform with their hands behind their backs, leaning slightly toward each other in deep conversation as they decided the fate of millions; we were witnessing the canine-poultry version of this, with an air of just as much self-important grandiosity about them.  We were dumbfounded. 

From that moment forward, Bear and Ernie were friends.  Ernie regularly went into Bear’s yard to hang out with him and if the gate to Bear’s yard was closed, then they napped together, lying side-by-side and touching fur to feather through the wire fence that separated our yards.  Did Bear witness Ernie’s apparent death and resurrection and was he impressed and perhaps in awe?  Did each recognize in the other the wicked warrior within?  Was that nose to beak meeting a rare moment of true brethren bad-asses forming a kinship bond?  It was more common than not to see Ernie and Bear together, so as perplexed as we remained about their relationship, it was clear that these two fierce creatures needed something from each other.  Maybe it was that final, true acceptance of the real self that we all seek, but many of us may not find.  But if these two seemingly tough, mean creatures had found a way to accept and have fondness for each other, then, maybe, there is hope for us humans as well.

“Too bad you are a vegetarian. I know a great burrito truck close by. Their chicken burritos are to die for!”

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