queue "Dueling Banjos"

I am sure that I mentioned before that I live in rural Arkansas. Contrary to popular belief, most people in Arkansas do own cars, many pairs of shoes, and have indoor plumbing. I have never used an outhouse. Ever. But today, I got a reminder of how redneck we really are around here.

This morning, I went outside to dispose of a bag of trash, and to my surprise, this rooster was in my breezeway. Now, when I say breezeway, most of you probably think of something that would have been in Gone With The Wind: a completely finished porchy type area with painted wooden floors, plants and flowers all around, a small table, (complete with a pitcher of tea and an ice bucket) and many vintage white rockers... Our breezeway? Not so much. We do have a table and chairs, but they are completely covered in stuff. Everything that we do not want in the house ends up in the breezeway. Right now, even Colby's crib is out there. (Because we took it apart and got him a twin bed, not because we make him sleep out there as a form of punishment.) It is complete with green indoor / outdoor carpeting, and many, many leaves - because my husband never shuts the damn doors.

Also, we take our trash out and put it in the corner until we can get to the landfill. (Sorry, no trash pickup out here... yes, again: rednecks.) We do this because if we put it anywhere else, the neighborhood dogs will decorate our yard with soiled diapers and empty cereal boxes.

So anyway, I am taking out the trash, and here is this rooster. I have this thing about birds... I don't like them very much. I think it is the feet. Just looking at the rooster's feet make me queasy. And his little beady eyes. But really, as far as roosters go, this is a pretty one. But I don't want him in my breezeway.

I open both exterior doors and go back in the house. Two hours later, I go back out and he is still there. Looking at me. Clucking deep in his little rooster throat. I decide enough is enough. I convince him to leave. (Convincing involves waving my arms frantically and running back and forth through the breezeway, while screeching, "Go on!! Go home rooster!! Get out of here!! Go!!")

Miraculously, it works. I am triumphant at my rooster rounding skills... for about one minute. Then I hear the rooster screeching and squawking, and a huge ruckus in my backyard.

My dog, Cassie, and the neighbors dog, Oreo, are trying to kill the rooster.

I stand there, horrified, watching the show and trying to decide what to do. As much as I want to go back inside and watch Blues Clues with the kids, I can't do it. This is all my fault. I evicted that rooster from the safe confines of my breezeway and literally threw him to the dogs. I must save him. It is the morally correct thing to do.

So, I run outside, barefooted, in my blue pajama pants with the clouds, and my gray Old Navy flag shirt circa 1999 and no freaking bra. I grab a stick and start waving it frantically around the dogs, yelling, "Cassie!! NO NO!! Oreo!! STOP!! Put the chicken down!! We don't eat chicken!! Well... not with feathers anyway!! STOP!!! OREO!! I am not kidding!! DROP the chicken!! Cassie, get DOWN!!!"

We run the length of my yard, and into my neighbors yard. Oreo has the squawking, pissed off rooster in his mouth and is prancing around like he just won the canine lotto. Cassie just keeps jumping up and snapping at the roosters tail.

I finally slam the stick on the ground right beside Oreo, and it startles him enough that he did drop the rooster. The rooster flapped away the best he could and both dogs stayed with me.

I hope that this ordeal doesn't apply to that old Chinese saying about when you save a life it is your responsibility forever, because I don't want a rooster's well being on my conscious for eternity.