I told my little children a disgraceful lie was when they were 2 and 3. And it was about a rooster. Or roosters, I must confess.

For some reason that spring, we had the vilest, most evil gang of roosters I've ever seen. Out of a straight run, I had four roosters, handsome ones all, and they had grown from downy chicks to gangly teenagers up into ill-tempered taloned beasts who chased children for sport. (I can still see J. running as fast as her little legs would go, egg basket clutched tight in her pink hands, wild-eyed rooster on her heels, tearing after her across the pasture like some feathered, heat-seeking missile, up and over the manure pile, until he gave up, and she was in tears.)

Well, I decided those roosters were history after what thereafter has been referred to at my house as the manure pile incident. I'd had enough. And Dennis, being the gentleman that he is, didn't make me dispose of the wicked cocks. He did. All four of those fellows got theirs on the chopping block. Yes indeed. They had it coming.

And when the kids came home from their dad's and asked what happened to the roosters. Where had they gone? And why was it now safe to go collect the eggs from the docile (and I suspect, very relieved) hens?

It came out of my mouth before I could stop it.

Well, you know what, those roosters were sitting on the fence, all in a row, in a line, right up here on top of the barbed wire ...

J. and C. looked at me with wide, expectant, trusting eyes, and on I went, gathering momentum like a tumbleweed.

And there was this big wind.

No change in their expression, sweet little souls.

And that wind just blew those roosters away.

I felt like the most disreputable type of dog as their bright eyes swept the surrounding area, imagining the breeze and all that wing flapping and clucking and feathers flying.

Right off across the pasture, right past the horses, right over the treetops, and (big whoosh of breath here for the big finish) ...

I haven't seen them since.

My two and three-year-old proceeded to spend several days searching for the windblown cock-a-doodle-dos ...

I have never fessed up.

Related link: Ode to Fat Head (bring your kleenex)