Requiem for a rooster

A few weeks ago, I got a note from a high school kid that I’m helping pay for school.  In exchange, he’s helping me with some language stuff.  The note said that he was really sick, needed help, had no one to take him to the clinic, and might die without my help.  What could I do?  I jumped in my truck with Albert, the man who’s been crafting stories with me, and headed out for the kid’s village.  I had to bring someone so that I wouldn’t get lost.

Of course, in a brilliant stroke of strategy, I drained my huge class of iced tea right before I left.

So, off we go deep into the countryside.  We get to the village, stop, and Albert walked down a path to go to a house to ask directions.  Having adventures like this in rainy season isn’t bad.  There was grass all around higher than my head.  So, while Albert was asking directions I got rid of the iced tea.

When we got to the kid’s house, his father gave me a very valuable gift to thank me for helping.  Oh joy, a rooster.  My German shepherd loves roosters.  He just doesn’t share them.  Thankfully, colleagues that live about a half mile from me keep poultry and were willing to house my thank you gift.  Whew.  Sadly, I just got the news that the rooster fell ill with either bird flu or ‘the plague,’ some chicken disease that sweeps the area periodically.  They wrung his neck and buried him, they wanted to avoid blood in case it was bird flu. 

Yeah, that’s why they did it instead of me.  So sad I missed it, since I LOVE killing chickens, using my machete, all that good stuff.

The high school student went home the next day with some antibiotics, he’s doing fine.