Wet Feathers

Just about the time I was thinking our routine needed a little shaking, it got shook.

Yesterday (which was one of many in a series of will-it-ever-quit-raining days) the boys and I were holed up in the basement, trying out a science experiment that was failing miserably. Through my frustration, I hear my husband calling down the stairs "Can you come up here?"

He doesn't normally summon me with such gusto while the boys and I are in the middle of such a fascinating (miserably failing) experiment, so I figured there was good reason.

There was. It had wings. And my mom had it in the house.



I don't know where this hunk of roo' came from, but he was sitting in our ditch like a drowned rat. Soppin' wet and shiverin'. My husband saw it, made the mistake of mentioning it, and my mom went out to rescue the poor thing. The rooster never ever tried to get away. Mom says she walked right up to him and picked him up...and then brought him into our house.

Oh readers out in blogland, please raise your hand if you know how badly I want chickens??

It is a good day. :) Yes, this was the routine shaker I'd been hoping for. The boys were ecstatic. And Hubster kept asking why I was so smiley. ;)

Mr. Drowned Rat's beak is clipped, and one of his feet were tied (purposely, it appeared) with a long piece of twine. I cut the twine off, and then my mom handed him to me.

"I'll get the crate ready," she said.

We're like an amateur animal rescue here, prepared for almost any animal we find who needs to be nursed back to health. I distinctly remember a baby raccoon being raised in our dining room when I was in elementary school. So keeping a rooster in an extra large dog crate in one of our bedrooms hardly seems odd at all.

When the crate was ready for him, we set him inside and he seemed to be glad to be out of the rain. He was workin' at his feathers, but he sure wasn't drying off very fast. He needed some help.



Of course, blowdrying him through the door of a dog crate only dries off the top of him, so out he came again.



I'm not sure what people are called who rescue roosters from freezin' to death in a 35 degree F rainstorm.



Or what they call people who bring roosters into their house while their husbands are smirking and rolling their eyes.



I'm not sure what they call children who immediately decide that their entire education now will be based on the rooster who currently lives in the bedroom.



I'm not sure what they call people who let the rooster snuggle in and fall asleep in their laps.



But we are those people.