In my line of work, sleep is a very precious commodity. And so this morning, when a rooster’s crow jolted me awake TWO full hours before my alarm was set to go off, I was slightly annoyed. The slightly annoyed turned into very annoyed as his crows continued, as loud as if he were merely a few feet away, and got closer and closer together.

I’d heard this rooster in the neighborhood before, but only when I was outside at daybreak. I even recognized its crow, because I had made fun of it once. It sounded like he was going through puberty, or that someone was strangling him as he crowed (which, incidentally, is exactly what I wanted to be doing). Never before had I heard the rooster from my bed, though, so I figured it must have found its way into my yard somehow. And from the sound of things, it was the patch of yard directly in front of my bedroom window.

The minutes went by and the crows continued, non-stop. I tried turning up the fan for more white noise. I covered my head with my blanket. Then with my pillow. I yelled “shut up!!!” a few times (I’m not very rational when sleep-deprived). Since going back to sleep wasn’t really an option, I began timing the rooster crows like a woman in labor would time contractions, until there was a crow every 3-7 seconds. Non. Stop.

Finally, I gave up and got out of bed. As I was getting ready for work, I walked into the laundry room beside my bedroom, and I heard the crowing even louder. I’d had enough. It was time to shoo this troublemaker off of my property. The only problem was that I couldn’t find him in my yard. There was no rooster anywhere, and worse, his crows were actually quieter outside than they had been inside.

It couldn’t be.

Could it?

I went back inside to the laundry room where the crowing had been loudest, and decided to open up the door to the garage, on the off-chance it might have sneaked in somehow. I turned on the light and peeked around the garage at the boxes and tools and lawn mower, and then chuckled at my silliness in thinking that there might actually be a live a rooster in there. I live in a bustling city, after all, not a trailer park in Kentucky (not that there’s anything wrong with trailer parks in Kentucky. Just sayin’).

Just as I was about to close the garage door, I caught a bit of movement out of the corner of my eye. And there it was. On top of a shelf that stood against the wall of the garage, perched atop my George Foreman Grill, was a rooster.

I guess it got in there when the garage door was open yesterday, and got trapped inside. So, naturally, I did what any good animal rights activist would, and had a little photo shoot rather than freeing it.

Relax, PETA. I freed it five minutes later, after it began hopping around in an agitated manner, as though it was about to attack me.

Do you think the rooster realized the symbolism of his perch of choice? Does he know how many of his kindred have sizzled away beneath the shiny metal lid of that Lean, Mean, Fat-Reducing Grilling Machine? Was the 2 hour crow-fest his way of mourning their loss? Of punishing me for their slaughter? I’ll worry about that later, because I’m exhausted.

By the way, I’ve decided to eat at KFC for lunch today. But only because I’m not exactly sure how to capture and feather a live rooster.

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