Some months later, Lucky found a new home.
A nearby ranch had what I was told—quite delicately—was a “hen-heavy situation.” Dozens of ladies. No gents. The kind of imbalance that called for… let’s just say, some poultry-level testosterone.
Enter Lucky D. Clucky.
He was dropped off like a traveling bard with a story to tell and a mission to fulfill. I wished him well. Gave him a quiet goodbye. Told him to mind his manners but enjoy himself.
He’d earned it.
After all, he’d lived in my living room. Jumped through windows. Napped with rabbits. Survived fires and predators and the existential oddness of being a rooster raised in the company of mammals and music and hardwood floors.
I hope he’s out there somewhere—strutting a little, crowing a lot, surrounded by hens who listen. Or don’t. Either way, I hope he feels like he landed in the right place.
Some animals pass through your life like background noise.
Others leave claw marks in the woodwork and take a piece of your heart with them.
Lucky was the second kind.
