You can finally bury the rooster that bought the farm xmas eve. Goldie had been on ice in the trailer since then waiting for a decent burial. He was becoming a permanent fixture in my morning animal husbandry chores: open the trailer door, Good morning, Goldie. And there he is, supine and unmoving upon the desk. There wasn't much ceremony involved. Dirk and Ian had carved out a hole in the ice and mud a couple of days ago so the burial ground was set. A snow shovel served as a means of removing a still-frozen rooster from said desk and he was carried off to the Pet Cemetary. It's times like these I'm glad to be living at a dead end where the neighbors are few and the incidents bizarre.
At Goldie's final resting place, near a few other fowl that had passed on before him, we discoverd that the hole wasn't dug to the appropriate shape. Rigor mortis and the prevailing frozen conditions made it difficult to fold his legs in the small, neat rectangle. This required a little more digging, making the rectangle look a little more like the outline of Connecticut. Measuring the dead is always a good way to start any funerary procedures ~ I've seen it in a countless number of Westerns. I figure they're on to something. Thankfully, the ground was easy enough to manage without the pick-axe.
With a rock cairn atop, Goldie is interred at last. I miss his crowing. Well, had missed it since xmas. But as we have six other roosters, there will be plenty of crowing anyway. The big deal about Goldie was that this rooster was a fighter. He'd survived a dog attack, costing us hundreds of dollars at the vet's as there was no way I could tend his wounds as prescribed without having him in our living room. Later, he survived another animal attack that traumatized the nerves and muscles of his neck. (As reported here.) Others may crow, but no rooster could ever replace Goldie.
And now for some finished art: