This is a bantam white cochin rooster. Isn't he cute?
(Photo stolen from TheBigWRanch12)
Let's call him Chester, because I can't for the life of me remember the exact name of the bantie white cochin rooster I'm about to tell you about. (Even my brother Mantel Man couldn't remember, and that's never happened in the history of Earth.)
Chester was a feisty little bugger, often to the point of obnoxiousness. He favored the sneak attack, scuttling up silently behind a person on his ridiculously cute fluffy legs, then flying up at the person -- let's say ME, for example -- with his feet outstretched toward me. I'd hear the flapping, turn around, and get a frontal assault of snotty chicken. This sounds funny and harmless, but those ridiculously cute chicken legs have spurs on them, which are rather painful if they get purchase on bare skin. It was particularly galling to be attacked by a pet who depended upon our good will to survive, and it was hard to explain being intimidated by a darling little puff ball no larger than a balloon.
But we were all somewhat intimidated. We watched our backs in the back yard.
Chester had a peculiar habit of hanging out near the swimming pool in the early morning. This was annoying because he was a rooster, and roosters crow pretty much all the time (never mind that the story books taught you that roosters crow at dawn. They do -- at dawn and at all other times of day and night). Our bedrooms were close to the pool, and therefore within earshot of a certain snotty crowing puff-ball who hung out at the pool.
We were never sure how he got there or why, but Chester would sometimes get into the pool on those early mornings. Did he fall in trying to get a drink? Probably, but I would think one time would have cured him of that nonsense. Plus, there was plenty of water around the yard that didn't require swimming lessons to reach. I have a theory: Chester was a thrill-seeker. Chester the Adrenaline Junkie Rooster.
This theory is borne out by the way we'd find Chester -- riding the pool sweep around and around the pool. Our pool sweep at that time* was one that floated on top of the water, so it was possible for a lightweight thrill-seeking chicken to perch atop it and ride around (as long as that chicken didn't mind the revolving tile squirter that must have acted as a sort of chicken bidet; presumably, Chester didn't mind).
(Photo stolen from this site)
Several times Mom would have to rescue Chester from the top of the pool sweep; the wet and bedraggled little turd was NOT gracious about the rescues, making it even less fun saving his puffy little chicken ass.
But one morning Chester had taken one thrill ride too many, and Karma caught up with him. Mom found him in the drink. Poor Chester.
The moral of this story: there is no moral, unless you are a small ill-tempered rooster with a penchant for risky behavior. In that case, the moral is, of course, WEAR A LIFE PRESERVER.
*The pool sweep was named Ernest; my people are not good at naming humans but we're GREAT at naming inanimate objects.