Flown the coop

I have been hesitant to write this, hoping beyond hope that this chicken would -- yes, wait for it -- come home to roost.

But no. George (seen here in a file photo) no longer provides our morning serenade, nor do any of gang from around the corner at Bobby's who used to challenge him in the occasional turf war.

I had heard some time ago from Don, who was watching our place and is the handy guy at Duval House, that some guests there were less than charmed by our gypsy fowl. He hinted darkly that he had humane traps we could use if we wanted to quiet the dawn patrol, and we said no, but thanks.

He's away on vacation now, so I don't have to ask him the difficult question.

And now just before the sun comes up, when I'm sitting on the porch with a good cuppa French Roast, I hear them off in the distance, most likely in Bahama Village, but not George's distinctive crow.

I miss him. But as with everything else, the tide rises; the tide falls. And one of these days there'll be a rooster renaissance here just as surely as chicken eggs hatch in 21 days.