Rachel had a Little Rooster

Like Elton John, I should've stayed on the farm. I'm a natural.
If you don't already know, my parents are what Flannery O'Connor calls "Good Country People." Oft times, I've asked them about the 70s and the pop-cultural sadness that was the decade (which, I'm happy to report, I've actually come to appreciate in my old age), but they just shrug and say, "We weren't into disco." Obviously. I've got pictures of them in matching dime-store cowboy hats to prove it. Pair it with their matching maroon, corduroy bell-bottoms and they were quite the fetching pair... I think they spent the decade listening to Marty Robbins. Anyway, in spite of their best efforts, their oldest child (aka, me) has never really taken to the country music or the country lifestyle. Oh, I know Johnny Cash like the back of my hand (and am proud to say that seeing him live was one of my all-time best musical experiences), but I'm their folky-bohemian daughter, who really prefers traipsing around Europe with a large backpack and black and white film loaded in my old SLR to riding a horse on the range (PS. Everyone in the Sego clan is quite incredulous regarding my desire/ability to ride a camel in the next couple of weeks because I've refused to get on a horse since I was a Brownie Girl Scout, but it's already booked... I'm looking forward to an "Alchemist" moment).
Anyway, there is one funny part of farm life that is surprisingly fulfilling... in moderation. As you know, I have to tend to Ma and Pa Sego's animals from time to time. It's not so bad now-- we've just got two sheep (Flower and Bethany, who are mostly well-behaved, though they poop everywhere), Molly (our dog who is a member of the family and only eats chicken breast), and the poultry: two roosters and a hen.
For whatever reason, we always have more roosters than chickens. The hens just manage to get killed off. Esteban and Hubert don't really fight for dominance, and I'm pretty sure E is Bertha's baby daddy, but Huey has still managed to make a pretty good life for himself. Instead of trying to impress Bertha, he just roams the neighborhood. Seriously. My parents don't really live in suburbia, but the block is full of houses on an acre or so each. I don't know how Hubert gets out, but he's like me... friendly, and a wandering spirit.
Sometimes I'll be working away in my office and hear him right outside the window. When I take things out to the mail, he walks along with me. I think he'd like to be invited in, but I'm not sure that's a good option. I tried to pet him the other day, and he pecked at my finger, but it didn't really hurt anything but my feelings. Still, I'm ok. We've got the boundaries established now, and it looks like a beautiful friendship is commencing. And we all need somebody to love.