© Bruce Goodman 7 June 2017
Everyone said that Claude’s rooster was a prize bird.
“I don’t know what you did to that rooster,” said Farmer Jack, “but for a nine year old boy to raise a rooster like that is fantastic.”
“You should enter the rooster in the poultry competition at the upcoming Farm Show Day,” suggested Mabel. (Mabel was a notable ornithologist.)
So Claude did. You wouldn’t believe the preparation that went into getting the rooster ready! He had everything done to him that chickens normally don’t get done: his legs were washed and oiled; each feather was individually preened; even his magnificent tail had a surreptitious whish of hair spray.
Farm Show Day arrived! All were agog at nine year old Claude’s rooster. Cock-a-doodle-do! Cock-a-doodle-do! The rooster was something to crow about.
Anyway, like most things in life, it didn’t get anywhere, so Claude brought the thing home. Eventually, like most domestic birds, they had it for dinner.