Tuesday, December 18, 2012

Pete Is Dead; A Not Very Christmas-Like, Christmas Story

I knew it was going to happen some day, I just didn't think it would happen so close to Christmas, the time of year when we think about things like Christ, and love, and yummy holiday treats.

But things on the farm don't wait for the right timing.

It happened on a Tuesday morning, one week shy of Christmas Day itself.

In a house of twenty hens, there lives one lone rooster.

On the day we brought him to the farm, Pete was as kind of rooster as any rooster can be.

But as the months have passed, he has turned in to a nasty little thing and the kids and I find ourselves praying before we go down to feed and water the chickens that the darn thing won't attack us.

The Cowboy would just laugh when we told of the rooster's ruckus, and he would always say, "I don't know why y'all have so much trouble, he's never done anything to me. You just have to be nice to him." (As if the treasures and I are some sort of rooster abusers??? No, not me... I love animals! LOL. :)

Something in me would just bubble over every time he said that. Our rooster is nastier than, well, I'don't know, something terribly nasty, and when the Cowboy gets all smiley and a bit overly confident in how much Pete loves him, I just  wanna  pick Pete up by the tail and throw him into the Cowboy's bed while  he's sleeping!  (Yes, I might just have a little bit of a rebellious side.)

But TODAY... today my dear friends, was the day I've been waiting for. 

Pete finally let loose on My Cowboy.

And when my Siah came walking in the front door, all proud with a bloody rooster head in his hand, I couldn't help but smile from ear to ear. Pete the rooster had finally let loose on my confident Cowboy and my man put him in his rightful place... our freezer.

On my way into town today, I stopped at the barn where Gramps and the Cowboy were standing by the poor headless chicken. I rolled down my window and the Cowboy asked in all seriousness, "Can you pluck em' when you get home?" 

I must confess that I threw up in my mouth. 

There is this part of me hidden somewhere under my left elbow, that wants nothing more than to be a true farmers wife. But then there's the other 95%  of me that can easily confess that I just might not be cut out for the details of this crazy life.

I don't do blood. I don't chop off heads. I don't pluck.

I eat prepackaged meat, with no skin and no bones, straight from aisle 4 from the market in town.

I think I'm with my Reesie-girl on her feelings about lettuce. When I told her that all lettuce comes from the ground, she simply chose to stick with her own opinions and still lives in the full confidence that lettuce comes from stores.

I know where chickens come from, I'm just completely sure that I don't want to go there. 

And after the Cowboy watched me swallow my own throw up and drive out the farm gates, he graciously let me off the hook and took care of business while I was in town with our many small treasures. 

Thanks my love... 

I owe you one.

Merry Christmas from the farm. :)