Okay, okay. I’m not going to shoot Winston. Can you imagine? My wife would beat me to a pulp and toss me out, my readers would rise up in horror and outrage and the armies of the righteous would pursue me with torches and angry e-mails the way they chased Frankenstein into the tower.

Still, for a moment, listening to this pompous puffin crowing under the bedroom window at 4:30, I swear Maria mumbled, “I’ll shoot him if you won’t.” You can’t shoot a rooster for crowing, that’s for sure. Winston the III ought to be in Congress. He loves to puff himself up and make a lot of incomprehensible noise at odd times about nothing for no discernible reason. As I write this, he has lodged himself on the stone wall outside of the barn and making self-important noise as if he were Paul Revere on the ride or a presidential candidate on the stump. God help us. God help me. I have been trying to write for two hours with this strutting creature blowing my ears of at short distance. He seems to be crowing at me, commenting on my work, startling and unnerving me. I’m rattled. I keep jumping up in my chair. I have to admit that I was yelling back at him this morning: “Hey, Shut Up! Quiet Down! Give it a rest.” He loves to hear himself crow, and the more I yell at him, the more he crows back at me. Lord.

I know some farmers out there will understand. I wonder if  Winston would like to spend some quality time with Frieda in the back yard.

I have to admit to being fond of Winston III as Maria keeps pointing out. I love his call to life, his insistence on having something to say, even though nobody – not even the hens – seems to want to hear it. This is a good temperament for modern-day publishing. I will not shoot him. Maybe spray him with a hose once in awhile.