We have a rooster who is an absolute weenie, a dandy, a fancy-pants boy. Our neighbors gave him to us, explaining that he’s a Polish breed, more of a show bird than anything else. “The Polish” -- the neighbors called him that, and now we do too -- apparently didn’t fit in with the chicken house dynamic next door, and I’m not sure he fits in here at our Working Class place any better.
Still, it’s fun to have The Polish around, if only because we get so much entertainment bang for our buck in mocking him.
The Polish has a fru-fru mop-top of feathers on his crown, and his look reminds me of the 1970’s pop singer Rod Stewart. Unlike the famously rowdy, gravel-voiced rocker, however, the early morning crowing that The Polish is able to muster kind of cracks and squeaks in the most adolescent, 12-year-old boy way, so that we’re embarrassed for him.
The thought that maybe our dandy rooster might be trying to belt out “Maggie May” gives me fits of the giggles.
Several days ago I went into our barn to do morning critter feeding and to see whether our chickens had laid any eggs. The most beautiful light was shining in through the open rafters, filling the chicken house and illuminating the tail feathers of The Polish. I pulled out my camera and -- though it felt a bit weird to be focusing on our Rooster/Rod Stewart’s butt -- I shot some pictures that I kind of like.
Maybe I should stop my mocking of The Polish. I’m beginning to appreciate his European sense of style.
