Awhile back, one of the rock cornish crosses (meat birds) came up lame and was sent to the infirmary. No need for insurance. Animals at the rancho are fully covered, however the treatment usually consists of checking every day to see if its croaked yet. Disabled though she was, her apparent discombobulated state began to stabilize and she became one of the lucky few, allowed to roam the grounds as if they owned the joint. Joined by the grand matron of rangers, Beatrice, and a brace of goofy ducks, she got into the swing of things right quick. Everything was going along nicely with the usual entertaining pecking order antics and food fights until it became apparent that she was in fact a he. The comb got all big li dat  and the body stay like one basketball, brah. As the plumage developed and he found his voice, it was clear that this fella was going to be enormous. There really is no way to discourage a rooster from crowing. Its like trying to hold a fart that passed the point of no return a while back. So i sat with him from time to time, and as he nibbled lay pellets from my hand we chatted about his fate. I explained to him that a "no rooster" rule existed in the hood and it would become increasingly annoying if he were to stay on. He turned broadside to me and, tilting his head slightly he gave me the one eyed stare. He then did a little walking in place shuffle as if he were about to say something. I've seen and studied this behavior a thousand times before, along with the attendant voiceings of various levels of concern in the traditional "Peh-kawking" language. Best I could tell he was pretty much saying WTF over and over again. So he comes up to me the other day and pecks out a morse code message on the palm of my hand wanting to know what his options are. Now keep in mind that its very refreshing talking fowl because there is really no agenda, only the assimilation of information and the formulation of a plan. I laid it out for him. (a) I defy my own rule and keep him tucked away in a semi secluded spot where his morning ritual is only mildly annoying, (b) I take him out Kahikinui way and drop him in a green zone, (c) I pawn him off on someone who falls in love with him because, stud muffin, (d) I bind and gag him and leave him in Grime's bed or (e) I cook him up for christmas all wrapped  in bacon. Now I know that this was a lot to consider and that there was no guarantee that he would get his way, but without hesitation he "said", Eat Me. To be honest, I wasn't quite sure how to take that. He saw my confusion and ended it by tucking his head under his wing, lying flat on his back and sticking his legs strait up in the air. This took me by surprise, but what he managed to get across to me in his pleadings was that he absolutely Loved the smell of bacon and how it felt when rubbed on his body. Hard to argue with that logic. As you can well image we were now locked into each other in a kind of meat bird mind meld and that I would be traversing realms hitherto unavailable to the human psyche. He said he was kidding about the bacon thing and that reality for him was to follow the overpowering urge way deep down, to be the best meal he could be. I actually started to tear up. How simply beautiful, genuine, matter of fact and in the moment of him. We let the silence generated pour over us. After awhile I looked at him and thought, how can you be so certain of the best path? He said, all the options offered have their virtues but ones calling cannot be denied and if it is, it will come around again. So now, the chicken that had been referred to as Brutus, Hercules, Flash Mob and Bowling ball has turned into Ramakrishna. Then, he grabbed my brain and in flowed this: one can embrace life or turn from it, either way brings lessons, but to drift in life, to say "who KNOWS, who CARES" is to gather the dust of apathy in ones hands, sprinkle it in ones eyes while claiming to see clearly. So now, the hair on the back of my body is standing up and I'm feeling behind my ears to find the implant. Make it a meditation, make it a meditation, make it a meditation. Apathy to compassion, apathy to compassion. No longer who KNOWS, who CARES,  but                 WHO knows, WHO cares. Find THAT fucker and you're home free. He followed me into that moment of peace and silent knowing. Finally he "said" to me, cook me up with bacon and plenty of salt and butter too, but please don't cook me with any carrots, potatoes or onions. Why, asked I. Because I can't stand the sound of their screams when the temperature passes two fifty, says he. On dancer,on prancer, on donner, on blixen. On moonshine, on gummy bears, on pork rinds, can't fix em. I don't know about you, But.............. The more you show, the more we'll grow. Peace, Jp