Lloyd was talking about roosters tonight, and it reminded me of the story about a rooster named Rasputin. Since about four people might read this, and three of them already know the story, I'll try to keep it brief. When we were living in Pensacola, Lloyd used to buy quail and plant them in the bushes and then take Ranger out to train him to sniff out birds, or whatever it is hunting dogs are supposed to do. Besides fart and snore, I mean. One day when he was buying his quail, the redneck he bought them from asked him if he wanted a rooster for free, because it was fighting with his other chickens and he needed to get rid of it. So Lloyd brought it home, which is just crazy, because we lived in a subdivision with a no-chicken rule.
When he got home, he got out of his truck and heard a huge racket coming from the bird box, and it sounded like the rooster was beating up on the quail. Lloyd is a huge fan of the underbird, until he puts them in some bushes for a dog to eat, so he opened the box and grabbed the rooster. The rooster went crazy, and Lloyd swung him around, accidentally bashing his head against a tree. In our front yard. In the no-chicken subdivision. The rooster went limp and finally Lloyd started to think. He thinks, "Hmmm, Anna's going to be home soon and she is not going to like this dead rooster situation. I know! I'll throw him over the back fence and she will be none the wiser!" Behind our back fence was a strip of woods about 75 feet wide, and it ran the length of our chicken-free street.
The next day, I was laying on the couch. I should mention here that I was on crutches from falling through the attic onto the garage floor, so getting up and trucking myself to the back yard was not an easy task. Lloyd was outside messing around and he came tearing into the house yelling that I had to get up and look on the back fence. So I hobble into the back yard, and to my surprise, there is a brain-damaged rooster sitting on the back fence, with his head all cocked over, making a sort of demented warbling noise. At that point, Lloyd had to tell the whole story, and we named the rooster Rasputin, for he who could not be killed. Or, he who was difficult to kill, at least.
Pretty soon, Rasputin got his crow back, and he started to crow bright and early every morning, annoying the neighbors in the no-chicken neighborhood. One day, we had a visit from animal control. Some of the neighbors had complained of a rooster crowing in the neighborhood and they thought it was coming from somewhere around our house. Had we seen it? And could they check our back yard? Luckily Rasputin had some street smarts because he stayed out of sight. The chicken cops left and didn't come back. Then Lloyd started thinking Rasputin might be lonely, and one day he came home with two hens, and promptly chucked them over the fence. And for all I know, all three of them are there to this day, living in polygamous bliss.