Roosters are for crazy people with no children.

Ah, Dinkbat.  I haven't thought about that little bastard in years until the other day the women in my office were talking about thier pets.  I don't have any pets, but I did when I was a kid. The one pet (and I say pet very loosely) my memory seems to let slip by was "Dingbat.... my pet rooster".  Who the hell would want a pet rooster, except of course if you live on a sprawling farm, or simply enjoy being tortured.  I was about 10 when my dad brought this bird home.  He thought it would be a nice addition to our two-stalled horse barn.  "A nice wake-up call", my dad would say.  Yeah - not so much.  It didn't take long for this bird to wear out his welcome.   It got the the point we'd throw our book bags in the air after getting off the school bus, running like bats out of hell as Dingbat would go for our ankles, shins and any available skin surface, pecking and cackling..It was horrible.  So funny now, but awful then.  My mother would stand at the end of our driveway, waving a broom at him so we could run around them - and get into the house.  He'd grab the end of the broom with his (beak?) and shake it from side to side like a dog with a chewed up rag doll.  The funny thing is - at night after the sun went down and the horses were fed and back in the stalls, we'd walk out and check on Dingbat.  There he'd be, quiet and vulnerable up on a shelf my dad had made for him, peaceful and gentle.  So peacful we'd be able to pat him a little.  Then, 4 am would come "COCKADOODLEDOO"...and we'd be back on the bloody battle field for yet another day with this loony tune.  My father got sick of the tears and agrivation and dropped him off one afternoon to a neighbor's chicken farm.  We went back a few weeks later to check on him and there he sat in the corner of the pen - PLUCKED NAKED.  Farmer said the chickens had gotten to him. Who's tough now, Dingbat?