Charlie the chicken. I've taken to calling him Chuck instead. Charlie rhymes with Harley, which is one of the cat's names. Chuck rhymes with cluck which is what roosters do. They also crow. Roosters crow at dawn, of course. They belt it out whenever they hear other roosters crowing from however far away. They crow if a car speeds by or a bird sings in a nearby tree of a bee buzzes overhead or for whatever the hell reason and whenever they jolly well feel like it. Ron finds this endearing. He has already told me at least a dozen times not to get too attached. "They don't live very long, you know," he says.
"He's a rooster," I say.
"I'm just sayin'," he says. "I wouldn't get too attached."
"He has a tiny head and an enormous body by comparison and he poops on the driveway and crows all damn day," I say.
"He's a good boy," Ron says. "He seems to like bananas."
"He's a chicken. He likes everything," I say.
"Well, just don't get too attached," he says. "He is pretty, don't you think?"
"Yes," I say, "He is pretty. Annoying, but pretty."
"He's a good boy," he says.
This is what our life has come to.
Chuck's crow sounds like the intro notes to the theme from Get Smart. Er er errrrrrrr ER.... I think mold spores have invaded my psyche.
It's warm and sticky and we're headed to Hilo to brave the throngs of first-of-the-month-yay-it's-pay-day shoppers. Only the heartiest will survive.
A hui hou. Aloha!
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