Deus, in adjutorium meum intende. Domine, ad adjuvandum me festina.
O God, come to my assistance. O Lord, make haste to help me.
AAHHH! The title is from Shakespeare's Othello, Act 3, Scene 3.
"An honorable murderer, if you will; for nought I did in hate, but all in honor." Othello, Act 5, Scene 2.
Of course, I am not the murderer, albeit an accessory after the fact. I allowed my parishioner friend to catch and cage the frisky fowl in order to "do him in." On Sunday after Mass, Othello will be returned to me, in a condition capable of being put into the crock pot. Chicken and dumplings sounds great to me!
I wondered how the hens would take the abduction of their lord and master. Naturally there was much squawking and flapping about while the chase was on and the proud, but suddenly panicked, cock of the walk was being unceremoniously brought down by a huge catch net made from an oversized pillowcase. Gingerly, he was stuffed, feet and spurs first, into a smallish cage to be transported to his place of execution.
Daily and often Othello crowed and flapped his wings, mightily declaring his superiority over all things. His vocal ability was stentorian. However, there was an odd coda to his crowing. One could here what sounded a bit like an asthmatic wheeze at the end of each crow. At being confined in the small cage, Othello was heard to utter a small, almost pitiful, "errrr." Really, it was almost a squeak. I almost felt sorry for him.
ALMOST! This gorgeous, Silver-laced Wyandotte rooster had cascading irridescence in his blue-black tail. The silver across his back was beautifully even. His rose comb was perfection. Sigh! What a shame that his reign was so short. He was a year old in April. From that time on he was a narcisisstic tyrant, terrrorizing the hens - and me. He strutted and preened and scolded and attacked. He was a bully of the first magnitude.
I wondered if the hens would be stressed at the loss of the King. Later I took some scratch out for them. They came running and happily clucked and pecked. When dusk fell, they all went into the hen house as usual, not being prodded or persuaded. My daughter remarked that, like most women, they didn't need a man to tell them it was time to go home. This morning, about 6:15 a.m., when I was out checking the brooder room and the 2 1/2 month old pullets, I heard the proud cackling of a hen who had early laid her product for the day. I went over to the hen house and run, opened the gate for their free-ranging, and a happy flock of hens ran clucking and singing - yes, they sing - it's a very sweet song - into the pasture. I
think they are relieved to have a peaceful day ahead. I saw no depression or confusion, just a happy bunch of hens.
Othello was truly a narcissist. He reminds me of someone in power and in the news these days. Hmmm.
O formose puer, nimium ne crede colori! Pretty boy, complexion isn't everything!
Virgil, Ecologae II, 17.
5/16/12
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