Our Crazy Rooster

In India, you never really leave the village behind. Cows compete with motor bikes for right-of-way in Delhi's busy streets, and chickens and goats crowd sidewalks outside of internet cafes and upmarket western chain stores. In similar spirit, around our hut on the beach in Goa we have an assortment of farm animals, namely cows, pigs, chickens, and roosters. See in India, Old McDonald had a beach...Ohm-ah, ohm-ah, ohmmm.

I discovered something recently; roosters can actually fly. I thought they just clucked and sauntered around, bobbing their heads to some fowl internal beat that only they could hear. But no, they fly. I know this because I saw one the other day, fleeing in utter terror from a rather playful Labrador mutt. The beach dogs here are the most relaxed dogs in India, but they do like to play, unfortunately for the rooster. It made for a funny sight; the dog bounding after the frantic rooster, who ran with surprising speed for a bird, and then took to the air when the dog got close enough to nip a tail feather, crowing up a storm the entire time. When the dog finally gave up its winged quarry, the rooster squawked in a distinctly incredulous and offended manner for quite some time. It was only when I saw the dog chase the same rooster across the beach again the next day that I began to understand the scope of this poor bird's traumatic daily existence.

Later that night I learned just how deeply disturbed this bird is. The rooster clearly suffers from post traumatic stress disorder, the most prominent sign being his heightened startle response. Like a war veteran who jumps at the sound of a car backfiring, our slightly cuckoo cock crows at just about everything. Right now as I write this it's 3:37 a.m. and I swear that damn bird has cockadoodledooed at every goddamn wave that's reached the shore for the past two hours. On top of that, when he crows he sets off all the other roosters crowing down the beach. It's like a horrible screeching domino effect that starts again very twenty seconds, as the waves keep on coming. So basically I live on a very loud stretch of sand populated by a horde of traumatized and confused roosters. (A loud crash of a particularly big wave just sent the rooster off on another rant, which was of course echoed by his confused brethren up the beach.) Granted I know this is probably the cock who shtooped the hen that laid the eggs that went into my tasty masala omelet this morning, but still. India, you are too much.