Rose, checking out Winston’s body, in the background

  December 26, 2008 – Winston, a symbol of Bedlam Farm, and a bird of considerable character, died this morning. One tradition of the farm is that Rose is present at all animal comings and goings, as she keeps an inventory of all things in her domain. I took Winston out into the woods and buried in some snow. I suspect the foxes and coyotes will get the remains.
  Winston came here four years ago from a nearby farm, his left leg injured defending his hens from a hawk attack. He withstood brutal winters, a nearly fatal attack by his son Winston Jr. He was a character, crowing at odd times, limping around on one good leg, and was a gentle creature. He almost froze to death one winter, but Annie saved him, giving him soup and potions. Annie kept him alive with loving care and patience.
   Winston had been nearly immobile for days, and I was, in a way, glad to see him go, as he was a creature of gravitas, great dignity and presence. He never quite got the dawn crowing thing down, and he would go off at odd times, day or night. He used to make so much noise they could hear him in the village, but he’s been mostly silent in recent days.
  He was a bit rumpled and disheveled, his tail feathers sticking out all over the place, and in recent months, he came out of the barn only when the sun was out and he could sit on his perch by the Pig Barn. I named him after the famous Winston, because to me he personified duty and steadfastness.
  If there is a rooster heaven, I am sure Winston is there. So long, and thanks.