"Oh, they're so cute!" she squealed. "Here, chickie chickie chickie!" She held as many of the tiny yellow peepers as she could and cried with love. "Look at this one! It must be the runt!" 

I held the tiny chick in the palm of my hand and listened to it cheep. Its tiny voice was higher pitched than the others'. But it seemed to hold its own among the hungry mob that pecked all about it, trying to take its food. It seemed to fight back and appeared to be satiating itself among the diminutive flock. 

The boys and I had finally "tilled the soil" with rakes, and shovels. I put myself into traces and pulled an old hand-plow for them while they wrestled it into grooves, making way for planting seed. 

Moira bought a lot of staple foods to keep while we waited for the garden to give us the expected yield. I did the cooking so she could enjoy the air conditioned restaurant and get off her feet under the canopy of a cluster of oak trees when she came home. She enjoyed sitting out there in an aluminum chair, feet up on another chair, a tall glass of iced tea to sip and a yard full of baby chicks. The boys had learned to use a fan rake to scratch the ground for them, and giggled between themselves as the horde of chicks followed them excitedly, pecking at things only they could see. Then, each boy held a pan of chick feed and scattered it among the growing chicks. 

The corn began to sprout, tomatoes broke ground and flowered, and potatoes began to show their leaves above the hay I had spread for them to peek through. The chicks matured until their yellow down began to disappear, and feathers began to sprout from their tiny wings. It was the first day of August. 

I had found a job pumping gas and diesel at a convenience fuel and snack store in town. The night shift fuel and beer sales made it convenient for the farmers to go to town and visit a couple of rowdy bars until late. I had worked there for several weeks before I had the time or energy to observe my feathered brood. Their feathers had matured and they were beginning to look like something that would lay me some fresh eggs. My mouth watered at the thought. 

I got off at 4:00 a.m. and headed for home. When I walked in the house, my wife shuffled in to meet me. "Come on, Honey. I've got the fan on full blast and the bedroom's nice and cool." 

I fell in bed and went right to sleep. 

"Crocka Groggity Graaar!" 

I awoke with a start. 

"Crickity Crackity Cat shit shit!" 

I leaped from the bed. 

"Grumpity Frawkity gabble gabble gooble!" 

I ran to the window and peered through my wife's lace curtains. 

"Crickity Crackity Cat shit shit! Crocka Groggity Graaar! Grumpity Frawkity gabble babble booble!" 

I was so damned flabberghasted that I couldn't move. Every one of those little feathered bastards was trying to crow. All twenty-six of them! 

My little runt of a rooster was making the most noise of them all with his screechy little voice. "Crickity Crackity Cat shit shit!" he kept hollering. I had to laugh. I stepped out onto the back porch and sat on the stoop listening to the cacophony of rooster crows. Throwing my head back, I let out a bellowing guffaw that would've wakened an entire neighborhood. 

The runt had taken a special place in my heart. I had named him "Dandy" for his gorgeously developing plumage, the golden mane that grew from his wattles all the way to the drape across his back, the amethyst medallion that graced his throat. He looked proud. He could've been the king of the barnyard despite his diminutive size. I soon learned the pecking order began with him. He was like the little general. 

But I was mad. Here was a man who had planned to start harvesting eggs for breakfast and sell the rest for hard cash. I was going to put them in the stores and sell them to Trudy's Hom Cokking restaurant where Moira worked. (Yeah, the sign painter couldn't spell.) I fired myself up so much that I was fuming. I jumped into that little Volkswagen and revved her up. 

"Now Peter, don't be too hard on that old man. He probably didn't know!" Moira shouted after me as I drag-raced out of my yard and onto the country road. 

I sped along that dusty road, creating a cloud behind me. I knew something was wrong! That's what it was. My own intuition had told me not to turn into that old Cracker's back yard last June when I first bought those twenty six little bitties with the idea of selling eggs. I pictured the sly blue eyes peering at me from under those Santa Claus eyebrows, just thinking to himself, I'm going to sell this dumb city slicker a mess of rooster chicks and he be too dumb to know it. In a pig's ass I don't know it. "Where the hell is that little rickety bastard with his fancy sow?" I said aloud as I screeched tires into his yard, followed by a billowing cloud of dust. 

Billy Rudy came to the porch and hung his thumbs in his back pockets. Gritting his teeth so hard, his pipe stood up, he said quietly, "Er you mad?" 

"What the hell makes you think I'm mad?" I grated sarcastically. "I ourght to be real happy with them twenty six cocka doodle doing little bastards you sold me! I can't get eggs out of roosters, you little backwoods cracker con man! I ourght to wrang your neck and fry you up!" I fussed and fumed in the worst kind of Ozark accent I could muster. 

Billy Rudy bent double with laughter, screeching "Hehehehehe!" and slapping himself on both thighs. "Wail," he drawled, "you didn't tell me you was wanting to sell eggs, Mistopher Fowler! You can cook up them little fryers no matter what they is, boys OR girls! Rooster combs and wattles is a real delly casey around these here parts. My wife saw tees them in onions and bell peckers and serves them up with collard greens and grits. UMmmm!"
I stood there sweating and fuming. 

"Now, if you'uns is wantin' some Thanksgivin' Turkey, all you got to do is cut their bawls off and they gone grow real big!" 

I felt my mouth drop open. "You mean----castrate them?" 

He let his pipe droop. "I don't know none of 'em 'ere fancy words you city fellers say. All I know is you pull their bottom ribs apart and stick in yer forceps and yank out their bawls. They gone git nice and fat just like 'at 'ere fatted calf in the Bibble." 

"Bible?" I mumbled, trying to decipher the old dirt dauber's remnants of English. "Can you do it for me?" 

"Who, me? Naw, I don't do no triflin' work like 'at no more. But I got me a rag-head doctor, his name be Ray Mad Jee Haw or somethin' like 'at. He do me a mess o' capons ever year so we can fatten 'em up fer Thanks Givin'. Whynchoo come on in the house while I gitchoo his number. Be careful, now, this here porch be kind of rickeldy." 

I followed him across the porch, being careful not to step on loose boards, testing them gingerly as I made my way to the dilapidated screen door. 

I stepped into another world. There, in the middle of the living room floor sat Honey Chile, her fat butt cheeks spread onto a beautiful Oriental rug. She sat there in her double mumu, feet splayed, toes wiggling. She was just putting the cap back onto her nail polish bottle. I could smell the acetone, which cleared my sinuses in a hurry. I watched her toes waggling and suddenly, I realized she was wearing artificial toenails! 

"I'll git ye some ass tea in a minute," she said, "soon's I dry my toenail polish." 

"Ass tea? You mean donkey…?" 

"No, sir, Mistopher Fowler, I mean ass. You know, 'at 'ere cold stuff you put in a glass to make yer tea cold." 

"Oh," I said, the communication fog lifting, "You mean ice tea!"
"Wail, 'at's what I just said! Ass tea!" 

Billy Rudy produced a computer print-out of a telephone number. I shook his rough hand, glanced at the huge new plasma TV and left, stepping carefully over the front porch. 

"He got a horse pistol up yonder about a country mile from Hogwaller!" he shouted as I started my car. 

"Horse pistol?" I shouted back. 

"You know," he said with a wily cackle, "one of 'em 'ere places where they take care of sick anny mules." 

"You mean a veterinarian." 

"Whatever." The old man shrugged. "He be a rag head doctor, 'at what he be!" 

***

"Doctor, I need you to castrate a couple of dozen roosters. Do you make house calls?" 


A funny-sounding voice answered over the telephone line, "Yess! Yess! Where you live?" 

I gave him the address and hung up. I poured me a tall glass of iced tea and remembered Honey Chile's offer. She probably would have charged me for it, I thought, as I squatted to sit on the porch step. Presently, a cloud of dust announced the arrival of a white pickup truck, well-equipped for field veterinarian service. The dark figure stepped out of the truck and approached the house. I stood and held out my hand. 

His head appeared to be wrapped in about two miles of grey cheesecloth. To keep the mound of cotton mesh from falling off his head, he had attached it under his double chin with a strip of the same cloth, probably uncut from the main rag. His mustache and beard hid his mouth and big sleepy eyes peered from his brown face. 

"Crickity crackity cat shit shit!" Dandy greeted the veterinarian with his squeally birdsong. 

"You caponize this bird? No!" 

"Dr. Jee Haw, I've got a whole flock of roosters some hill billy sold me when they were chicks. I was planning on going into the egg business!"
The vet shook with laughter but made no other sound. "You are speaking of Mr. Hackett." He rolled his eyes. "Where is your flock?" He lifted Rudy into gentle brown hands and stroked his golden mane. 

As I led him into the back yard, I said, "Dr. Jee Haw, what do you mean by caponize?" 

"Caponization involves the removal of the male bird's testicles. We emasculate them so they will not have interest in the female. This allows their sexual energy to turn into fat. You will have nice Thanksgiving birds, good money, people love bird that is not turkey," he explained. "But you call it a rrrroasting hen," he trilled. "That word is more attractive to delicate appetites." His mustache twitched into a wry grin. 

Dr. what's-his-name examined the flock and said, "You must allow your birds to fast until this time tomorrow." He looked at the time on his cell phone. Lock them up where they cannot forage and give them no water." He lifted Dandy into his arms again and carried him out to the truck. "I will not caponize this one." He caressed the golden mane and silky saddle feathers. Gently tracing the maturing long sickle feathers that curved out over the bird's rump, he repeated, "We will not caponize this bird." 

I did as I was told. 

The next day, I watched the doctor and even assisted by holding each bird firmly but gently on the table as he operated. He had carefully laid out a sharp knife, a spreader, hook, and forceps. He had instructed me to mix ten drops of bleach into a quart of water. I poured the mixture in a big salad bowl and set it nearby. 

The doctor moistened and removed a few feathers from the lower rib cage. He cut a small slit between the last two ribs, inserted the rib spreader between the bird's ribs. He inserted the hook and tore the membrane, exposing the intestine. "See the testicle, Mr. Fowler, right there close to the spine? It looks like a navy bean." 

He inserted the forceps, twisted them gently and removed the far testicle, then returned to the rooster's interior to remove the other testicle.
The vet repeated this procedure until he had caponized all but the little one. 

"How much do I owe you?" 

Dr. Jee Haw, or whatever his handle was, smiled and I saw the same wily twinkle in his dark eyes that I had seen in that cracker con man, Billy Rudy. Again, I knew something was wrong. 

"The operations are free. I would take the little rooster in trade." 

Immediately, I bristled. "How much does it cost to caponize a bird? I just want to know, so I can put it down on the books. I can't run much of a business if I show barter on my books." 

"Oh, of course, you are a good business man. You could put it down as two dollars for each bird!" He turned to go, keeping Dandy cozily in the crook of his elbow. 

"Uh, Dr. Jee Haw! I'll pay you cash. Come here, Dandy." I took my little friend and set him on the ground. 

"Crickity Crackity Cat shit shit!" he squealed triumphantly, and strutted away. 

I reached into my pocket and paid him cash. 

He took the money, folded it and secured it into a silver money clip. "I will give you one hundred dollars for the little one." 

"No, I like Dandy," I said with a casual shrug. "He's my buddy. I think I'll keep him for a pet." 

When Moira came home from work, I gathered the family around the kitchen table. Holding the young rooster in my hands, I said, "We're keeping Dandy in the house from now on." 

Moira spoke quickly, "So he can shit all over the house?"
"Oh boy!" roared the twins. "Can we keep him in our room?" they chorused.
"Sure," I said, "but keep him shrouded at night so he won't crow. Put him in a big box and cover it up with a shirt."
"Why?" the whole family chorused.
"So he won't see any light. Light makes them crow. I want him to be quiet all night." I passed Dandy to Billy, and Willy stroked him. "That Ahab doctor offered me a hundred bucks for him." Moira's eyes widened. "Now I know something's got to be wrong here. I just can't put my finger on it." 

I continued, "My suspicion is that Dr. Yapshad…" the boys roared with laughter. "That towel-headed horse doctor and Billy Rudy Hackett are in cahoots with each other. I may be wrong. But why would Billy Rudy send me to him for caponization, then old towel-head offer me a hell of a lot of money for this little skinny bird?" 

The whole family gazed at the happy little rooster perched on Billy's head. His bright red comb looked like fire with its yellow base. Golden to orange feathers had begun to mature from his bare face down to his saddle. Beyond that, the satiny bright royal-blue tail feathers merged into a dark blue tail. The still immature sickle iridescent blue-green feathers had begun to curve up, then downward. We all sighed deeply as Moira said, "Isn't he beautiful?"
Dandy agreed, "Crickity Crackety cat shit shit!" 

"Did you know old Billy Rudy has a state-of-the art computer, an Oriental rug and a Plasma TV in that little shack of his? His wife wears the most expensive perfume and has her hair and nails done on a regular basis."
"The weasly-eyed little bastard says he owes it all to that "father chicken" he's got out there all chopped up to look like a pullet!" 

"Dad, that's a fighting cock. Didn't you know that?" Willy plucked Dandy from his brother's lap and hugged him close. 

I was stunned. "Where did you hear that?"
 
Billy spoke up while pouring iced tea for us all. "Everybody knows that. But it's whispered." 

"We heard it from those kids we've been fishing with over by the creek," Willy said. "They said the internal revenue is kept in the dark by other enterprises, like eggs, fryers, pork, beef, vegetables and women making jelly and stuff. They report all their profits in stuff like that but a whole lot of men keep fighting cocks hidden in their barns." 

"Yeah, and you should hear Mort Green talk about all the money you can win if you have a good chicken. And he doesn't mean a pullet either. He means a rooster with a nasty attitude whose owner cut off his comb and wattles. They even chop off their sickle tails so they'll look more like pullets." 

"Where do they hold these cock fights?" 

The boys looked at each other and both grinned sheepishly. 

"Come on, boys. Talk up. You can tell your parents. We won't rat on you."
Billy shuffled his feet. Then, quietly, "We sneaked out one night and Mort Green took us to the arena." 

Moira's mouth dropped open. "My little boys went to an illegal cock fight in the middle of the night?" She shrieked. 

"Moira," I said firmly, "let's put that on hold for now. I think we're going to get rich off our little Dandy here and nobody's going to spill any blood. You keep a close watch on him. You can take him out during the day but even if you come in for a drink, Dandy comes in with you."
 
"Why?" 

"Because, I think somebody might try to steal him." 

I went up into the attic where we had stored all our stuff from the move. Rummaging around in my hunting gear, I found exactly what I was looking for – my old Remington twelve-gauge, pump gun. Anybody trying to run off with my livestock will get a load of buckshot in their ass, I thought. 

We put the kids to bed and Moira sat before the TV, sound off, iced tea in hand. We left the living room and kitchen lights on. I climbed my ladder to the roof, carrying a pillow for the ridge, a jug of iced tea, and my trusty pump gun. I settled myself in the shadow of the chimney. 

Just as my eyelids became heavy, I picked up a familiar sound. I'd know that 350 Ford engine of Billy Rudy's if there was a jet flying over. I looked across my fields toward the overgrown back road. There in the distance, I saw parking lights, bouncing in the high grass and deep ruts of the old road. The lights went out. 

The passenger door opened. I knew that, because the overhead light came on and I could see movement inside the truck's cab. The light went out and I heard a truck door slam in the distance. A dark figure entered the edge of my property and made quick, sneaky movements toward my barn. As the stealthy figure approached, I began to see its great size. A very, very large man in overalls crept closer and closer to the barn door. Just as he reached for the latch, the moon peeked from behind a cloud and revealed his long black beard. I could see his bare legs in the cut-off bib overalls he wore. His feet were bare. 

I shouldered the gun and aimed, knowing I would only have a moment to get this one shot. I pulled down the pump. The figure spun away at the familiar sound of the pump gun and spread his legs for a high sprint just as I pulled the trigger. I nearly fell off the roof laughing at that fat sun-of-a bitch trying to run with those big fat elephant legs, leaping along, spread-eagle, throwing his legs out in silly lateral movements. 

I could hear Moira in the kitchen, screaming with laughter. I left the roof and entered the kitchen. 

"Shhh!" I grabbed her into a hug and said, "Listen! Look there!"
We heard the 350 start and watched as the truck turned around in the distance. We knew he was turning around because we saw his brake lights. Then he went in the direction he'd come from and put on his head lights. The next morning, the twins came running into the house with an artificial beard. Willy was wearing the hairy black contraption and both boys roared with laughter. 

The Next evening, at the store, I was out pumping gas for some old lady who was too helpless to put her credit card in the slot. Billy Rudy pulled up to the self-serve, nodded to me with his gilded smile and began his own fillup. Honey Chile slid down from the truck's high seat, landed splatfeet in her rubber thongs, and trundled her fat self inside. 

I walked inside with the old woman to collect cash for her gas. There, at the candy counter, stood Honey Chile. Her mumu was shorter than usual. She bent into a jackknife position and her huge twin moons revealed more than I ever wanted to see. But I couldn't help noticing something else. Bright red, bloody little holes covered her bare buns, bare thighs and bare calves. 

As I was making change for the old woman, I watched Honey Chile, whose right arm had disappeared inside her mumu. She stood up and approached the counter with both arms now exposed. She showed me a Hershey Bar and reached into her change purse for a dollar. 

Boldly, I reached out with both hands and flapped her breasts firmly in upward strokes. As she stood there with her painted mouth wide open, artificial eyelashes waving up and down, I counted twelve chocolate bars falling from her mumu onto the floor. I knew they had been trapped under her breasts because I could see they were perking a lot higher than usual. It's amazing how much contraband a big-breasted woman can trap under her tits!
The morning after I had Honey Chile arrested for shop-lifting and laughed like hell as the half-wit bubba cop hauled her off in his cruiser, I paid a visit to the local US Post Office. Yup, they had a very special package waiting for me.
I picked it up. It was labeled, "Gallus Lafayetti." I had gone on line and ordered four tiny yellow chicks, all females as a gift for my little friend, Dandy. He will be the true King of the barnyard when his four little Ceylon Jungle Fowl brides mature for marriage. 

As I handed the package to Moira, I quipped, "That raghead doctor Whoop-de-dod, or whatever his name is, has something up his sleeve. I'm going a step beyond. I knew something was wrong when he offered me a hundred bucks for Dandy. Something is going to be right!" 

Dandy agreed, "Crickity Crackity cat shit shit!"