So there was this cocky little rooster – you know the type: auburn feathers with a cape of metallic blue-green, resplendent tail, and a strut that said, “Chicks. The line forms here.” He wouldn’t have bothered me except that he took up residence in the middle of the street that leads to MY street. And it’s a busy intersection. Dude was there every day, stopping traffic, impressing local birds, moseying around like he’d brought about world-peace.
I called the cops on him.
His standing there posing for a photo-op nearly made me rear-end the 4×4 in front of me. And honking did nothing. He glared balefully at us human-work-slaves and then slowly, sl-owww-ly, sauntered over to the side, acting like he just went there because he saw breakfast. He was a menace, and I turned him in. But by the time the police got there with their little rooster nets–He was gone.
I haven’t seen him since.
I think he’s probably hanging out with the mice I’ve been hearing under my cupboards lately. They keep eluding my peanut-butter traps. And the ultrasonic pest repellers don’t do anything but give them a good beat to dance to.
Oh, the mice are taunting me. I killed ten of their kind a few months ago simply by putting traps under my sink. Took them all out in under an hour. Thought I’d won. But they’ve been biding their time. Mocking me. Scratching beneath the floors when I am in my office below, knowing that I know they aren’t falling for the traps and I can’t do anything about it. I think it’s the rooster’s fault. He’s in there with them. And he’s getting back at me.
I wouldn’t mind so much, except that I believe the mice and the rooster have been influencing my socks. Only half of them are coming out of the dryer each day. That’s right: one from each pair. Just . . . gone. Got a whole drawer full of useless half-pairs. I’m pretty sure they’re hanging out under my cupboards. Having a party with the mice. Overseen by the rooster. Trying to slowly drive me crazy. But it won’t work. I’ve got a rotisserie-pellet-gun-sock-stretcher, and I’m ripping up floor boards.
Those dirt-bags are going down.
It truly sounds like a conspiracy is at work here. I totally understand the frustration with those roosters and mice – they are crafty little devils. Now as far as the socks . . . you just need to show them who is boss here and do what my teenage daughters do – wear mismatched socks and call it a fashion statement!
Bwa-hahahaha! Good thing I wasn't drinking anything when I got to the rotisserie-pellet gun-sock-stretcher part. Howling with laughter.
Rob: 🙂
Laurie: My daughters do the same thing! I shall look into that.