Cock-a-Doodle-Doo Entry

Entered into "The Writer's Cramp - Poetry Week!"  with prompt:

Your neighbor has just acquired a rooster.

Write a poem or story about the situation which has produced noisy

“cock-a-doodle-doos” during the wee hours of predawn.

Cock-a-Doodle-Doo--691 Words
My husband and I moved to the country some seven or so years ago to enjoy a life of peace and quiet. We bought nearly a hundred acres which we rent out to a local farmer for his hay harvest. For these past several years, things have been peaceful and quiet with the welcome exception of the tractors and machines the farmer uses for his hay. They remind us of our city days gone by.

But recently, 57 days ago, to be exact, a new neighbor moved into the vacant farmhouse across the street. This might not seem to be much of a problem, but our house is rather close to the road and her house is set rather far back, making our house closer to her pasture land than I'd prefer.

At first she seemed nice enough, even bringing over a batch of slightly overdone chocolate chip cookies in what I only assumed was her poor attempt at being neighborly. But it wasn't long before the problems began.

"Google 'Livestock Conservancy,'" she said when I politely commented on the constant bleating of her new pets. "San Clemente goats are a critically endangered breed with there being only about 900 left on the planet." That was 900 more than I felt were necessary. They're goats.

Then came the obnoxious braying of her American Mammoth Jackstocks which she bragged (or was it bemoaned, it's hard to say) that the Livestock Conservancy listed them as a critically endangered breed of donkey used to make mules. The animals are huge, as large as a horse and their braying carries across their fields, seeping through the crevices of our home.

But all this I could tolerate, if only barely. But the saving grace was the animals had a bedtime and all was quiet throughout the night as I dreamed of the droning roar of the haymaker, drowning out even thoughts of the critters across the way.

But then, one day, or should I say, one very, very early morning, it all came to a screeching halt. Two-fourteen was the time that we were awakened. I recall exactly, as one often notes the beginning of an end.

Cock-a-doodle-doo!

"Chickens? Please, God, tell me she didn't decide to get chickens," I rumbled in a gravelly, sleepy voice. My husband simply growled next to me.
Finally, after eleven cock crows and at 4:56, I decided to get up and wake my neighbor to repay her for my own lack of sleep.

I marched over, dressed but with my hair still relatively mussed so as to reinforce the fact that I'd been awakened. In the gray of morning light I was surprised to see her out already.

"Morning, Neighbor!" Her cheery call scraped against my ear drums. "What do you think of my new Campine chickens? Aren't they beautiful? Julius Caesar used to own some. Can you believe something so lovely could be on the verge of extinction? As soon as they start laying eggs, I'll be happy to drop some by. You aren't allergic, are you?"

I could see any comments I had for this do-gooder would fall on deaf ears. And worse, the rooster had awakened the other farm animals so the bleating and braying was already beginning for the day. I turned on my heels and stomped away. I heard her call to me, "Stop by later for some fresh goat's milk. It's delicious! Unless, of course, you're allergic."

I'm allergic to her and her "save the world" attitude, not to mention her annoyingly pleasant voice. I make my way back home to plot my revenge.

Many weeks and even more revenge plots later, after visiting with my husband's brother, the lawyer, we found that there is simply nothing to be done about her menagerie breaking our peace and quiet. With great sadness at the loss of our dream, we go to rejoin the city with its joyous rush of engines and progress. But I'm not sorry for our choice. When we announced our intentions to move, our neighbor was greatly saddened that we'd be missing the arrival of her new Cotton Patch geese which she extolled for their use as weeders in gardens. Weeding geese? That's what electric weed eaters are for.


Featured in the "Comedy Newsletter (June 15, 2016)"  as Editor's Pick. Edited by Ẃeβ࿚ẂỉԎḈĥ 2025