The Red Riding Rooster...

I was 8 when Messaoud died. I cried.

My mother said: “Don’t worry, son. We’ll just have to get another one!”
Messaoud was a rooster!
He had been part of the family ever since I could remember.

He strutted his stuff round the farm like a security guard in all his regalia.
Just before dawn, he walked up to the wooden fence and leapt onto its highest post just by the side of the missing gate.
As the sun began to cast its first rays, his magnificent plumage sparkled in the rising sunlight. He tuned his throat, filled his chest with morning wind and began his chant.
It burst out as a reveille bugle, melodious and smooth yet powerful and commanding.
He then bowed his crested head to an invisible audience, acknowledged the encore and burst into song one more time.
Cockadoodledoo! Cockadoodledoo!
His wake-up duty over, he did the rounds of the farm.

He marched slowly past the feeding chicks and hens like a sergeant inspecting his soldiers, mumbling orders and kicking stones.
He never mingled with the rest of the flock, preferring to remain still on a raised monticule of earth and straw to keep a discreet eye on the tiny balls of yellow feathers that were his pride and joy.

He stretched his neck at the slightest unfamiliar sound. He investigated the immediate surroundings without leaving his watch-tower.
Papa’s arrival in his shiny black car, our tired feet returning from school, the water bucket clinking as my mother lowered it into the well... These familiar sounds never managed to get him to stray from his sentry duty.
The only thing that did was the arrival of an old lady we all called Aunty Mabrouka.

She stood at the entrance to the farm and shouted for my mother to help her gain safe passage to the farmhouse.
My mother, in her apron, hands covered in dough always shouted:
“Just come along, Aunty. You'll be ok!” as she returned to kneading the daily bread.

The old, frail woman began making her way along the dusty path, her back arched by the years, covered in her usual red woollen shawl.

Messaoud’s eagle eyes followed the moving red target from the main road, past the well and the fig trees, the radish patch and the feeding hens. Aunty Mabrouka edged her way in a wide semi-circle in an attempt to avoid him but as she came round, a few yards from the door, Messaoud pounced.

The terrified woman screamed for my mother to help her. Messaoud swiftly climbed on her hunched back and began pecking the back of her neck as she ran towards the wooden door, screaming and swaying from side to side, trying to unseat him.

My mother came out brandishing her rolling pin. Messaoud calculated his escape just as Aunty Mabrouka dived through the doorway. He jumped off and turned round. He fluffed up his feathers and slowly strutted past his adoring flock back to his pedestal.

This hilarious episode was replayed many times till he died of old age.

Papa buried him behind the farmhouse. I stood by his side as he lowered the remains of our dear rooster into a makeshift grave. After he covered it with soil I placed a red rag attached to a twig to mark the spot.

Messaoud’s replacement had none of his pageantry or ferocity and Aunty Mabrouka was very relieved as her visits became more regular.