I grew up in a very busy, animal filled, household. We had a little Nankin rooster named Purdue. He was the most social little chicken I've ever had the pleasure to meet; he simply loved people. As we all grew into our teens, we, too, became more social ... and our "return to the roost" times got later and later as we pushed curfews further and further.
Mom solved the problem of knowing exactly when everyone got home by moving Purdue into the garage. When my sister came in, she would open the back door, Purdue would see the outside porch light and would crow. Mom knew the first of her brood was safely arrived home. The same scenario was repeated as I came in a few hours later, and again when my brother somehow dragged himself home.
Challenge accepted. It became an unspoken, good-natured game between us and Mom to see who could thwart the Chicken Alarm.
First, we tried to get around it by paying "little sister" a dollar to turn the porch light off when she came home. That only cost us a few dollars each, though. Sister swore she turned out the light (and demanded her dollar!) but lo and behold, whenever the "next one in" came home, that light was shining as brightly as ever. It was weeks before we figured out that there was an extra "safety switch" for the back porch ... in my mother's bedroom!
Next, we decided that the first one home would remove the light bulb. No go. Mom knew where the spares were kept. We played hide-the-light bulbs for awhile ... until my Dad had to buy more two weeks in a row ... and got REALLY mad at us for "wasting" so many!
We dealt with the living alarm clock until my brother came up with the bright idea of "fixing" the porch light so it no longer worked. We had two solid weeks where no one got ratted out by the rooster. We would come in from our nights-out, open the door and talk to Purdue in a quiet voice. We didn't want him to think we were giant raccoons or some other chicken-eating monsters. When we came in, we would quietly talk to Purdue, assuring him that all was well. Muttering sleepily, he would calmly fluff himself up and settle quietly back down on his roost over the bench freezer. The three of us smugly celebrated our victory with ice cream cones at our local drive-in.
But Mom wasn't done. The next weekend, she had us rearranging furniture all afternoon. We thought she was just changing things up a bit, which she had a tendency to do from time to time, but this time, she had an ulterior motive. The next weekend, we did our "settling" routine with Purdue. We chatted a bit, he complained quietly and fluffed himself back down, before we opened the door .. to a blazing light and a high, shrill, "Cock-A-Doodle-Doo!" The new arrangement had three lights - THREE - blazing through Perdue's door!
We gave up and called a truce. After an honest pow-wow, we ended up with slightly adjusted curfews and a promise to knock lightly on her door to let her know we were home (Dad slept like a rock!)
Purdue kept his roost - and his vigil - for two more years. For some reason, he figured that the garage was a cool place to call home. We finally gave up trying to move him back to the coop ... and we gave up trying to thwart the rooster alarm system, not because we agreed with it, but because of what my mother told us at the pow-wow. She admitted that that she didn't sleep well when we were out and about. She was too worried. In her own words, she said, "When the cock crows three times, I know all my babies are safe." How could we argue with that?
RIP Brother Purdue
And Thanks, Mom, for being so amazing!
Mom solved the problem of knowing exactly when everyone got home by moving Purdue into the garage. When my sister came in, she would open the back door, Purdue would see the outside porch light and would crow. Mom knew the first of her brood was safely arrived home. The same scenario was repeated as I came in a few hours later, and again when my brother somehow dragged himself home.
Challenge accepted. It became an unspoken, good-natured game between us and Mom to see who could thwart the Chicken Alarm.
First, we tried to get around it by paying "little sister" a dollar to turn the porch light off when she came home. That only cost us a few dollars each, though. Sister swore she turned out the light (and demanded her dollar!) but lo and behold, whenever the "next one in" came home, that light was shining as brightly as ever. It was weeks before we figured out that there was an extra "safety switch" for the back porch ... in my mother's bedroom!
Next, we decided that the first one home would remove the light bulb. No go. Mom knew where the spares were kept. We played hide-the-light bulbs for awhile ... until my Dad had to buy more two weeks in a row ... and got REALLY mad at us for "wasting" so many!
We dealt with the living alarm clock until my brother came up with the bright idea of "fixing" the porch light so it no longer worked. We had two solid weeks where no one got ratted out by the rooster. We would come in from our nights-out, open the door and talk to Purdue in a quiet voice. We didn't want him to think we were giant raccoons or some other chicken-eating monsters. When we came in, we would quietly talk to Purdue, assuring him that all was well. Muttering sleepily, he would calmly fluff himself up and settle quietly back down on his roost over the bench freezer. The three of us smugly celebrated our victory with ice cream cones at our local drive-in.
But Mom wasn't done. The next weekend, she had us rearranging furniture all afternoon. We thought she was just changing things up a bit, which she had a tendency to do from time to time, but this time, she had an ulterior motive. The next weekend, we did our "settling" routine with Purdue. We chatted a bit, he complained quietly and fluffed himself back down, before we opened the door .. to a blazing light and a high, shrill, "Cock-A-Doodle-Doo!" The new arrangement had three lights - THREE - blazing through Perdue's door!
We gave up and called a truce. After an honest pow-wow, we ended up with slightly adjusted curfews and a promise to knock lightly on her door to let her know we were home (Dad slept like a rock!)
Purdue kept his roost - and his vigil - for two more years. For some reason, he figured that the garage was a cool place to call home. We finally gave up trying to move him back to the coop ... and we gave up trying to thwart the rooster alarm system, not because we agreed with it, but because of what my mother told us at the pow-wow. She admitted that that she didn't sleep well when we were out and about. She was too worried. In her own words, she said, "When the cock crows three times, I know all my babies are safe." How could we argue with that?
RIP Brother Purdue
And Thanks, Mom, for being so amazing!
