zucchini larceny 183any bird native to the eastern United States by ear, and can nail most in-
sects, mammals, and amphibians at least to category. (Like most mortals,
I cannot. I can mistake mammal calls for birds, and certain insects for
power tools.) He offered a professional opinion on this pre- dawn croak:
“Idunno.”
As we listened, it became clear that two of them were having some
kind of contest: “Cro- oa-oak!”
(A pause, for formulation of the response.)
“Cri-iggle-ick!”
Steven figured it out way ahead of me. These were our boys of sum-
mer. Yikes.
More rooster voices joined the choir as dawn crept over the ridge.
Eventually one emerged as something of a leader, to which the others re-
sponded together in the call- and-response style of an old- time religious
revival.
“Rrrr- arrr- orrrk!”
“Crii-iggle-ick!” “Cro- aok!” “Crr- rdle-rrr!”
We had on our hands what sounded like a newly opened Berlitz School
for Rooster, with a teacher hired on a tight budget.
The girls heard us from downstairs, and came up to the sleeping porch
to see what was so funny. Soon we were all flopped across the bed laugh-
ing after every chorus. Welcome to our funny farm. Did I say we were
hoping for a Pavarotti? We had a gang of tone- deaf idol wannabes. For
how many weeks would this harrowing audition go on before we could
narrow the field of applicants? One outstanding contestant punctuated
the end of his croak, every time, with a sort of burp: “Crr- rr- arrrr...
bluup!”
This guy had a future in the culinary arts. Mine.
/
Our turkeys were looking gorgeous after their awkward adolescent
molt into adult plumage. Bourbon Reds are as handsome as it gets on the
turkey runway, with chestnut- red bodies, white wings, and white- tipped
tailfeathers. The boys weren’t crowing, of course, but this would be their
only failing in the department of testosterone. We’d seen that show be-