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The Rooster That Lost Its Doo

Between you and me, I am starting to get a little concerned about Stephen. He has developed this rather odd look on his face, one in which he looks deeply concerned and completely bewildered. I am hoping it's not the onset of some weird syndrome where he starts drooling out the side of his mouth or licking windows. 

One such example was when we were in the UK over Christmas, visiting family and friends. Stephen managed to find us THE best accommodation in Kent; on a working farm complete with chickens, cows, pigs and apple orchards! The house itself was magnificent with every mod-con you can think of, not to mention the fact that our fridge was filled to the brim with fresh apple juice, eggs, pork sausages, honey and home cooked meals. We were in heaven.

Until the next morning, when I discovered that the rooster had lost its doo.

Firstly, the fact that I actually NOTICED this was largely because Stephen (bless his heart) insisted on having the upstairs' patio door open all night, despite the fact that it was minus-ridiculous-degrees and there was a chance of snow later in the week. He proceeded to lovingly ignore the fact that my teeth were chattering and my now-blue lips had lost all feeling, and even offered to chip the icicles that were forming on my eyelashes. What a lucky woman I am.

Finally, after falling asleep (despite my concerns that I would die of cold during the night or have to self-amputate my frost-bitten nose over the kitchen sink the next morning) I had the most beautiful dreams of tropical islands, hot deserts and warm toes.

Until I was rudely awoken by a rooster outside my window at 5.20am. When it was still dark. And bloody cold.


I buried my ice-cold head under the pillow, desperate to go back to sleep and avoid the noise this screeching animal was making, when I suddenly realized that something was very wrong with this rooster. Very wrong indeed.


Then it hit me - where was the DOO? Any rooster worth his salt will know that it's COCK-A-DOODLE-DOO. Not to mention the fact that this particular rooster sounded like as if it was suffering from depression, and could barely summon up the energy to crow.


What followed was much tossing and turning, pillows being thumped over my ears, teeth being gritted and eyes being rolled. While Stephen (bless his beautiful soul) slept through it all.


Arghhhhhhh! Where was the DOO? Why on God's green earth could this bloody rooster not just add a DOO on the end like he was supposed to, and let me and my OCD personality go back to sleep?

It wasn't pretty.

It also explains why Stephen woke up ten minutes later to the sight of his achingly beautiful wife standing outside on the patio at 5.30am in the morning - in the dark and surrounded by gale force winds, hair flying in all directions and hands tightly gripping the railing in front of her, shrieking "DOO, you stupid STUPID chicken. It's DOO! DOO DOO DOO DOO DOO!"

He's lucky it was too dark to see exactly where the depressed rooster was, or I swear I would have started throwing pillows at it.

On the upside, we slept with the door closed for the rest of the week, Stephen kept feeling my forehead and asking if I needed a little lie-down at various points throughout the day, and I was banned from visiting the chickens during the day to provide Educational Feedback on the Art of Crowing.

It's also when he developed this deeply concerned and often bewildered look - almost like a deer caught in headlights. Do you think he might be scared of roosters?


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