cock-a-doodle-doo

Call me Albania.

Well, the Albania that struggled along under the ungloved steel fist of Enver Hoxha. When I last checked, he has been holding his breath for almost 37 years.

If I ever decided to indulge in the pretension of giving my humble home a name, it would need to be a name that celebrated the isolation of Hoxha's Albania. But, I hope without the accompanying  measure of international opprobrium.

Like many Mexican homes, my house is a sanctuary. A fortress. When the front door is closed, I am as cosseted as a sultan without his harem.

I have no door bell. I have no knocker on my door. And, because the music that wafts into my patio from across the street, I cannot hear anyone shouting for  entry -- even if I am in the patio. As I said. Cossetted. Or, as Henry Higgins would have it: "As restful as an undiscovered tomb."

There is one exception to the not-even-a-visa-will-get-you-into-my-country rule. Dora comes to the house twice a week to assist me in restoring order to the house. I will often leave the front door or the garage doors open to facilitate removing whatever needs removing to the street.

Open doors seem to be a magnet for the curious. Kids. Dogs. Goats. Adults. All have shown up unannounced in my patio -- just having a look around.

Last week, it was this rooster.

My neighbors raise poultry. Chickens. Ducks. Turkeys. It is like living several verses of Old McDonald. Usually, they stay fenced in. But, lately, several pullets have decided to exercise their egg-given rights to be limited free-range chickens. I have to be careful when I drive away that I do not complete the first step in creating chicken piccata.

But this was the first male of the species to visit inside the house. Some roosters bear their cocky name with aplomb. This guy did.

I wish I could wax poetic about his appearance. After all, he is a handsome bird. But, instead of searching for adjectives like "stylish" and "suave," I kept coming back to "tasty."

Even the most pedestrian of musicals (and Aspects of Love certainly qualifies for the category) contains at least one memorable line. For me, that line is sung by a father cherishing his daughter.

"Taking more from this life than I ought to take." I often think of that line when I consider the contentment that living in Mexico gives me. Even when I am considering eating one of my neighbors.

About 30 years ago, my then-girlfriend Linda and I were watching one of those treacly nature films that anthropomorphize animals. A group of children, each around eight years-old, were oohing and aahing over some cute rabbits when one of the boys picked up the largest rabbit by the scruff, weighed it in his hands, and pronounced: "Yup. A five-pound roaster."

From then on, whenever we saw something tasty still on paw or hoof, we would look at each other and say: "Yup. A five-pound roaster."

I tried to shoo my visitor the rooster back into the street. He just ignored me with one of those malevolent yelliw-eyed defiant stares that make people suspect chickens aren't.

So, I stared right back. Perhaps he could see in my eye that I was not intent on chasing him away, but was about to test where the two of us resided on the local food chain.

Instead of running at him, I started to stealthily stalk him. The look and the pace was enough to convince him that visiting hours were over. He, as my grandmother enjoyed saying, skedaddled.

This morning I looked for him amongst the poultry inmates. He was not there. My guess is that someone else is determining whether or not he is a "five-pound roaster."

Or rooster.