I once bought my son a coloured chick. You shouldn’t.
Many years ago when my 3 kids were young I brought them to the Farmers’ Day Celebration at Tanjung Lipat, Kota Kinabalu. My young son, Darrien, saw the coloured chicks for sale, and you know, those are irresistible to children. And so I bought one—a pink one.
It became his baby. It was kept in a box inside the house and which he diligently took care and fed. That was the start of the house woes of course. The endless cheeping drove everybody crazy. The chick would be quiet and happy when it could see one human being, but alone, it will soon start its infernal cheeping motor – cheep, cheeeep, CHEEEEEP! Of course the sales hook—the pretty pink fluff—disappeared in 2 weeks, leaving a regular chick. And an older chick that refused to be boxed in or go to sleep without hearing people around. And so it followed us around the house – cheep, cheeeep, CHEEEEEP!
In no time it grew to a size when crapping all over the floor all day long was even too much for the poor kid to go around the house cleaning after. And so it was exiled outside the house but still a well-taken-care-off pet. Still, it thought it was the youngest sibling in the house, always peering into the house trying to get in.
Well, the chick grew…and grew.
And it turned out to be a rooster. A strapping, beautiful white rooster. A strapping, beautiful white and HORNY rooster who thought human beings are its species, and who he have the hots for. This is no surprise as he grew up knowing only people I guess. And so every day he will chase us trying to hump our legs. Marion, my daugher, was always screaming, “Daddy! Darrien’s chicken is chasing me again!” My aunty who lived next door hollered every other day, “Manuk nu Rayn!” I would come out from the car after work, and there he was with obvious lust in his eyes, wings down and dancing sidesteps trying to telegraph sex to me.
My brother, who lives next door, had many chickens. I tried a few times to throw some hens in the rooster’s direction. He looked at them with disdain and disinterest, and then threw me a look with lascivious longing. I could almost see it put out it metaphorical tongue. Bleeeh!
My late mum (God bless her; she passed away last Dec, 16th) took the brunt of the rooster’s amorous, although misplaced, moves. At least we all, having to go to work and school, can escape its intentions for most of the day. Not my mum: she would be putting out laundry to dry on the outside clothesline and the rooster will come running from some bushes (Yeah, it had learned since to hide from my mum and ambushed her when she was not looking), pecked her legs and tried to hump. Then my mum would yell loudly, “Darrien! Manuk nu arat tomod! Mogu’rub!” (“Darrien! your chicken is so bad! It is pecking me!”). I had to explain to my mum that the chicken was not being nasty, and that it was just trying to mate with her.
This went on for weeks until mum, at the end of her long-suffering patience, put out a fatwa, “Kill the chicken. Look at my legs. They are black and blue!” All of us siblings looked at each other. Someone said, “Who dare to tell Darrien? Who dare to do the execution?” Of course no one had the guts!
Of course a fatwa is a fatwa. And so I took Darrien aside and asked him three times if it is ok to get rid of his chicken. Come on, this is serious stuff: you don’t kill a Primary 2 kid’s only pet chicken. He could be scarred for life and turn into a sociopath. Fortunately he said yes. Of course I chickened out (pardon the pun) from actually killing the rooster. And so I called my brother-in-law to get the chicken. Weeks later, he reported that it made for tasty curry chicken.
I did not dare to tell Darrien.