miss cayce

The truth about my dad's sleepy cock

There's a new addition to the family, to which my mom attributes to my dad's sleepy cock.

As all strange stories go, the most innocuous explanation is often the truth.

So there I was, staring with bemusement at a frolicking puppy while my mom explained that the reason why we ended up with a new puppy was because my dad had to bring his incapacitated rooster to the vet.

The reason why the rooster couldn't keep his head up and eyes opened was simple: my dad decided to put undiluted tick solution on its comb.

The next morning, he found it slumped over.

So off went my parents and the passed-out chicken, to the vet where my dad had to explain to the mystified good doctor what happened. Her only question was, "and what is its name?"

"No name, no name!" my dad huffed. He is probably the last person to admit that he keeps chickens as pets. When we first had chickens, he initially slaughtered a few for food but the whole experience was rather traumatizing because he'd had to first spend the entire morning, walking up and down the driveway with the doomed chicken, making soothing noises. And sometimes, the parang wasn't as sharp as expected, and there would be godawful screaming from the half-sawn chicken. I spent those hours under a pillow. He soon gave up after we complained about the noise and anyway, the chickens weren't as meaty as the store-bought chickens. We didn't like the eggs either.

So now we have chickens in the garden who serve no function whatsoever other than decorative purposes.

Anyway, the vet had puppies and kittens for adoption. And my parents, armed with a comatose chicken, decided that on top of the numerous chickens, two cats, four dogs at home, we needed another puppy.

It's pretty cute: it's a half-mongrel/half-spitz (or as my dad earnestly pronounced, "sffffffitz").

It was a good thing that my mom had just told me the story, because later my dad bellowed behind me, "do you wanna see my sleepy cock??"

I think I have to teach him to not refer roosters as cocks, or at least outside the family. God forbid if ever he goes up to the neighbourhood children, asking whether they wanted to see his sleepy cock.

And with most strange stories, there is often a happy ending.

After two days slumped over, and my dad fussing over it like a mother hen, forcing water down its throat with a syringe so it won't get dehydrated, the rooster eventually revived and is now back to digging up the garden to the reverberation of my dad's screams.

And my mom named the puppy, "Oprah".

posted by Cayce @ 10:28 AM