Cluck Norris

Cluck Norris wasn’t just a rooster. He was a damn tyrant. He woke up the whole neighbourhood every day at 4:50 a.m., even on Sundays. Didn’t matter if it was raining sideways, he’d crow like it was his job. And maybe it was. He strutted around the yard like he owned it. Picked fights with the dog. Chased my niece. Jump-kicked my leg once when I tried to clean the coop. I still got the scar. But I’ll admit it, he was one tough bird. Kept the hens in line. Never lost a fight, not even to that fox two years ago. Fox limped off with a bleeding tail. Then last week, he didn’t crow. Walked out to the coop and found him keeled over next to the water bowl. Looked peaceful, which is ironic. I didn’t think I’d care, but it’s too quiet now. I catch myself listening for that god-awful scream every morning. Nasty bird. Brave heart. Rest easy, Cluck Norris.