Crescendo

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Crescendo

That’s my chicken.

My aunt, wishing well for me, I’m sure, gifted me a chicken out of the blue. It was her chicken (rooster) actually, but, good intentioned as she is, and seeing me in dire need of a pet, she left the chicken to me.

 (If you can not notice the sarcasm here, you’re as good as my aunt.)

Of course the woman couldn’t take care of it, so she “handed it down to me”, something to be proud of for generations.

She called it Crescendo, I think, but I call it a pain in the ass.

For one, the house is filled with droppings from everywhere to everywhere and at 4:30 a.m. I have a fluttering, pesky alarm clock to swat off the dining table.

 (That’s another thing, it’s in love with the green on my dining table, reminds him of home I suppose.)

If I don’t get him off, I get company for breakfast- more droppings. 

Aunt positively threw me a bag of chicken food, she was quite concerned I feed him right, and for 7 days, I do not know how I have managed.

I won’t mince words and I definitely won’t pretend I like the thing- it’s all I can do to stop myself from flying into murderous rages- or say that despite the animal’s flaws I kind of have a soft spot for it- I do not.

I need a buyer, and damn quick, now that I have restored internet access (shall I tell you who pecked out the wiring the day he arrived?!) and you can take it off me for a couple bucks too.

Crescendo my foot, my levels of irritation have peaked since the day I’ve seen the dratted thing.