To Kill A Rooster

Move over, Harper Lee, Mocking Birds have nothing on Roosters. Instead of Mr. Lee, my book would be more like a Stephen King novel. “The cold sharp steel edge of an axe makes a dull thud as it separates  the head from the body of the accused rooster....” Yes,  I think that is how I would start it. After many nights awake, staring up my ceiling thinking of ways to kill my fowl feather fiend, I have decided to write a quick blog on the experience. 

I usually am in bed by 9:30 and wake up around 6:00 am. I have read other blogs that have talked about the noise in Ghana. It is not trains rattling on the tracks towards their destination, or the angry sounds of taxi horns, or the high shrill of sirens. No, it’s the sound of sheep and goats bleating all night keeping them awake until all hours of the night. I considered myself lucky that my room is on the second story in the front of the house, away from the four legged animals. I have instead a demented, possessed rooster, whose only goal in life that I can see is to keep me from sleeping. 

I can remember back in the States watching a commercial for a sleeping pill, where a rooster is perched on the  window sill, as the early morning sun makes its way up the sky, crowing and keeping the poor lady in bed awake. Well, the thought that the rooster only crows at the crack of dawn it a terrible myth, at least here in Ghana. This loud, obnoxious creature from Hell, crows whenever he damn well feels like it. 

He starts about 1:30  in the morning, just when I am getting into my deep REM sleep. He crows once, waits, and listens for a response. If there is no response,  he tries again 15 minutes later. Please allow me to describe the noise this wretched wraith makes. If he where a singer, he would be one of those singers that just screams the whole time. You can’t understand the words, you can only feel the pent up rage and anger the singer is conveying. Compared to him, a regular rooster would be Barry Manalow, or Mister Rogers. My rooster makes this unearthly scream for prolonged periods of time, and confirms to me that he is not from this world but from the deepest darkest pit of Hell. 

He will do this three times, and, when no other rooster responds, he will wait and hour and do the whole process all over again. Usually by 3:30, he strikes pay dirt, and some other rooster will respond. At that time in the morning, voices travel quite a distance, and from somewhere down the street, I hear a faint cock-a-doodle-doo. That is all he needs. It’s like a person drinking 20 large extra bold Dunkin’ Donuts Coffees. He explodes into a series of crowing, screaming and hacking that continues for the next 2 1/2 hours. 

Now, I consider myself a fairly easy going person, even keeled, and there is not much that gets under my skin. But, lying awake at 3:45, or 4:20, listening to this has tested my patience. Yes, I have my ear plugs in. Yes, the pillow is over my head. Yes and am drugged with Tylenol PM. All to no avail. I don’t think there is a way that I have not thought of on how this dreadful bird could die a long and painful death. I have developed an unhealthy taste for chicken. Every time I am served chicken at home I think, “Could this be Him??” I bite down hard, chew with extra vigor, shredding the flesh with my teeth. But, alas, the next morning the cycle starts all over again...