A rogue rooster somehow made its way into the yard today and doesn’t want to leave. I still can’t figure out how it could have gotten into this walled and gated compound, but the little guy found a way. Ah, the wonders of Mexico. I’ve since opened the front gate, but as I sit here writing, the rooster walks in circles, crossing my view on the patio, then down the stairs onto the grass, around and, hop, here he is again. Pollo stupido or is he just happy to be here? I’ve run out of books for the time being and the tellie is just a tad boring, so I made a game of first, trying to photograph Mr Rooster (he’s camera shy), then chasing him around the yard trying to force him out the gate. But he wouldn’t have it! And it became a game of hide-and-seek. Here I am running around the yard shouting, “chicken chicken chicken” and making smoochy noises like we do for cats and dogs, and the rooster – he’s a quick sucker – bolts left, then right, then behind a bush. He’s not very good at hiding though because he can’t keep quiet for long and so you can hear him rustling in this bush or in that plant.
I’m reminded of a very short story from a compilation edited by Paul Auster called, True Tales of American Life. They’re true stories sent in by Americans from all over the country. Here’s a very rough quote:
I’m walking down the street when I see a chicken ahead. As I catch up to it, it takes a left down X Street, stops about three houses down, turns right up the walkway and hops up three short stairs. When it gets to the door, it pecks at it with its beak, the door opens, and the chicken goes inside.
There it goes again!