It’s legal to raise (I’m pretty sure you don’t rear them) chickens, both hens and roosters, in Chicago. Hens are more popular because they don’t crow, and you don’t need roosters for eggs. (Putting it delicately, chickens can only be raised for the eggs or as pets.) I recently learned that niece Erika has two chickens named Nancy Pelosi and Madeline Albright. I hope to meet Nancy and Maddy someday. However, lest you think the purpose of this post is to tell you I have lost my mind and brought chickens home to roost, you’d be wrong. No. I am perfectly happy buying cage-free organic eggs. Perfectly happy. Having something else to tend to or pick up after is so low on my priority list, it doesn’t exist. Besides, my teen is adverse to claw-footed birds. I learned this when were traversing the plazas in Venice and every time a pigeon swooped in, he swooped behind me.
My sweet mother tells a very funny story about being on business trip with my dear dad in Paris. Dressed to IBM perfection, His Crabbiness stalked out the hotel door, followed by my sweet mother, whose patience was quickly fading at his need to control everybody and everything. As they exited the hotel and entered the plaza, a pigeon flew over my mom and rained poop on my dad’s impeccable suit jacket. (Bonjour, Mr. IBM.) Other things happened to my mother, but a bird would never dream of pooping on her. It just wouldn’t. My mother may not have laughed at the moment, but I can assure you that the moment my dad went to change, she was beating on herself and the doorman. I digress.
In any case, I don’t want to own chickens. I wouldn’t mind owning one rooster, though. And this is where my post gets riveting.
A few years ago, I wrote about an encounter Cole and I had with a rooster that was hanging out by the neighborhood cemetery. I tried to coax it to me and to coax Cole to grab it, but neither of them cooperated and so I left it with some water and hoped for the best.
Fast-forward to last week. On Good Friday, Cole and I were out running an errand when, directly in front of us, a bewildered rooster was trying to navigate traffic. We were on a feeder road that ran parallel with the expressway, so I threw on my brakes and frantically punched my emergency lights. Another car in other lane came to a screeching halt beside me, and together we were able to hold traffic, despite the fact that some morons were honking madly behind us, informing us that saving a rooster wasn’t on their to-do list. Appropriately, I gave them the bird. We shepherded the rooster to the other side of the road and away from traffic. I’m certain, he safely made it back to his coup and is cockadoodledoo happily.
As we drove off, Cole informed me that his dearly departed dad’s Chinese symbol was the rooster. I did not know (or had forgotten) this bit of trivia. While writing this post, I Googled rooster and learned that it’s also a good luck symbol. Very interesting. Next, I check the date of our last rooster sighting. April 22, 2011 (Good Friday). Odd isn’t it that Cole and I would meet and rescue two different roosters in April on Good Friday? Once in 2011 and once in 2014. Trust me, roosters aren’t just running rampant in Chicago neighborhoods, despite the fact that people can own them. If number three shows up I’m bringing it home and asking it a few questions. We’ll take the luck, tho!
Odd Loves Company,