Behind our backyard prowls a white leghorn with a harem of five or six hens. He is in his prime, and so is his vocal chord. He crows his virility during the most ungodly hours of the morning, sleep-deprivation to the poor souls within the immediate radius of his sonic mayhem. Insomnia that walks on two legs.
My morning mantra of respect for animal rights, which covers poultry too, grows more and more meaningless each time I'm jolted farther and farther away from slumberland.
One day, my family is going to feast on chicken curry.
This particular leghorn should ... watch out for falling debris.