July2015_A CHAT

© 2015 Helen Goleby

Bleary eyed, I stumbled out on to the deck in the early hours of the morning and looked down at the big black rooster crossly.  “Midnight, do you have to wake me at this hour every morning?”

 

Midnight raised his head and looked at me with a beady eye.  “Well, actually, I do.”

I gazed him in astonishment.  “I didn’t know you could talk.”

“You don’t know a lot of things,” he said.  “You humans just don’t bother to find out.”

“I’m sorry,” I said weakly.  “I really would like to know more.”

“Well.” he said, mollified, “You know my name is Midnight because you gave me that name.  In fact, I rather like it.  It suits me.”  He stood taller, smoothing his glossy black feathers.  “Oh, I must thank you for getting rid of my three competitors.  I was sure I was going to lose my voice crowing in the mornings.  It was quite ridiculous how they were trying to outdo each other.  The two older roosters were quite pleasant, but that young one was trying to give me a run for my money.  Young upstart.”  

“One of you would start, then the others would continue.”

“We were challenging each other,” explained Midnight, continuing smugly, “I was always the winner, though.  I had the loudest crow.”    

 

“I noticed.  It was impossible to sleep when the four of you were competing with each other!” 

“But you’re still complaining even though I’m the only one left!” he retorted.

I didn’t want to upset him.  “Tell me about your girls, Midnight.”

He smiled fondly. “They’re a lovely lot.  They get a bit adventurous wandering up and down the hills but always come home.  I get a bit anxious at times and keep a sharp eye out for foxes.  Fortunately they haven’t had any trouble apart from that one a couple of years ago when I was a baby.”  His attention wandered as he pecked up a grub.  “Excuse me.  I make sure the girls get the food first but they aren’t around this time.”  

“Do you have a favourite?”

“Well, yes, I rather like that little white one.  She’s got a very sweet nature and is very interesting to talk to.  She tells me about the other girls.  

Apparently there’s a lot of jealousy between those South American girls.  The red ones just ignore them but the black ones get a little upset about their spiteful comments.  The South Americans bully my black ones.  I’ve tried to talk to them but they won’t listen.  Conchita is the worst.” 

“Conchita?”

“Yes, she’s the smallest hen.  But she’s the biggest pain,” he sighed, sounding a little overwhelmed.

I decided to distract him.  “Midnight, why do they hide the eggs?” 

 

“That’s all Conchita’s doing.  She says that they’re all working too hard for their living.  They hear you counting the eggs each day then taking them away.  They used to wonder what you do with them until one of the girls from the farm next door said that you sell them.  That really upset them!”

“But that’s what hens are supposed to do!” I objected.

“Yes, but they seem to think that they should keep their eggs because they laid them.  Don’t forget that these South Americans are used to fighting for their rights.  Quite revolutionary.  Personally, I think they’re too big for their boots, if they had such things.”

I brought him back to the egg problem.  “So what can we do about the eggs?”

“Maybe you could buy them a treat, a special type of grain as a reward for all their hard work?”

“That’s a good idea.”

“I’ll have a talk to them.  See if I can bring them around.”

  

“I know they like the scraps we throw them.”

 “That’s another story,” he grimaced.  “Talk about arguments…”

I still needed to know where they were hiding the eggs.  “Excuse me for just a moment, Midnight.  Do you know where they’ve been hiding their eggs recently?”

“Of course.  Their nest is down in the valley, just under the fallen log.  They line up and lay, one after the other, giggling.  It’s like female humans lining up to go to the toilet.”  

“Thank you Midnight.  I’ll have a look.  And we’ll get some of that nice grain too.”

“Catch up with you again.  Remind me to tell you about the food scrap arguments,” he called over his shoulder as he strutted off, filled with importance.  His full-throated crow echoed across the valley as I staggered back to bed.

It was many hours later when I again stumbled out again.  The sun blazed down on the fowl yard and I could see the hens busily rooting in the earth for grubs.  The South American chickens grubbed as a group and I could pick out the leader, Conchita.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I said aloud. “That was just a crazy dream.”

And yet I found the eggs in the nest down in the valley, just under the fallen log.  And Midnight gave me a conspiratorial wink as I returned, laden with the eggs.

 

I was never able to look at Midnight in the same way again.