To the Editor:
Rupert has written a letter but I had to sign it for him:
“Hey listen up. It’s not about you. It’s all about me.
“Do you think I like running with the turkeys? Do you think it’s fun for me? ‘gooble gooble… One of these things doesn’t belong here… gooble gooble…One of these things just doesn’t fit in.’ Very funny guys. Hey, do we have to cross the street again? It’s been a sad and solitary life since that nincompoop left me behind. None of my family or friends to cockadoodle to. I yell for them every morning, but no answer. I think I hear someone calling, ‘Shut the cock up! Shut the cock up!’ I don’t think she’s related to me.
“So what if I get wound up at 3:30? I’m cold. I’m lonely. I want you to know it. How can I tell what time it is? The Christmas tree lights are on all night. You think I’m wonderful? Why would you set off fireworks under me New Year’s Eve? You nearly blew off my tail feathers! Thought I had been shot! No wonder those black birds died. Scared to death.
“Buddy in Oak Bluffs has offered me shelter in a comfy cozy hen house. The girls there have been waiting for me for four months. Hang on girls, I’m cockadoodle coming. Where do you think I want to be? Running with the turkeys or laying with the ladies? Stealing some cat’s food or dining on feed? Problem is, my feet may freeze off. God help me before I’m hopping on stumps with the skunks.
“Does anyone care what I want? Don’t I get a vote? While you’re pecking out each other’s eyes, you can’t see I’m in dire straits.
Get a life. It’s all about me.
As told to Kathy Phillips