The story I am about to relate will not be believed by some of you but I swear it is the truth. Actually, chances are good that it won’t be believed by nearly all of you. I am ready for contempt and condemnation for trying to pass off such a poor tale as having really happened, and yet it did.
I know some people, who shall remain nameless, will do their level best to discredit me simply because they feel quite uncomfortable whenever a story stretches their incredulity too far and they cannot find the line of reality that separates “true” from “imaginary.”
Oh well all I can say is this, that I’ve kept this story to myself for a good long time out of fear that I would look the fool for ever penning my recollections of a perfect murder, but now in my old age I no longer give a damn.
Those readers raised on the tales of Sherlock Holmes and Edgar Allen Poe will share the highest standards for any tale, to be sure. My effort to convince you, the reader, that this is a true story will boomerang with them and they will go into over-drive to convince everyone this work is pure fiction.
I am tempted to think so myself! save for one small fact: I witnessed these events first hand and intend to neither add nor subtract one iota of truth from the actual truth.
Am I being clever now, deliberately confusing the reader, or even duplicitous, misleading the reader on purpose? No, not at all; the following is a true story, on my word of honor! The reader is free to believe or not believe, however the mood strikes; it makes no never mind with me. In any event, this story is not about humans, but an animal . . . The bare facts are these:
In the 1980’s I was living and working in San Jose as a teacher, subbing in the public schools; even after I enrolled in a credential program at the local university, I continued to sub. I earned no fortune but it was enough to get by on during the academic year, though the unemployed summer months were much harder.
While I certainly wished to enjoy the free time of summer vacation the plain truth was I absolutely needed to find employment during the summer to eat–if I could only find a job. Luckily, I managed to locate employment in Salinas as a teacher for a six-week summer school. It would be a long drive “to and from” but the job paid well and I was happy to have found such work.
Thus it was that I made up my mind to commute, driving the 50 miles between San Jose and Salinas twice a day. Generally the early morning commute was of greater interest than the afternoon’s since I could enjoy the sunrise, the day lightening gradually but brilliantly as my car glided southward toward Morgan Hill and Gilroy.
On a calm sunny morning I would roll down my window to catch the beautiful pungent aroma emanating from two rows of mature eucalyptus trees that filled the air: a delicious exhilarating smell!
Not far past those two towns, I was occasionally privileged to watch the most amazing change in weather as the slow-moving fog came pushing inland, usually right about where the straight-as-an-arrow highway begins a series of bends and curves near San Juan Bautista; the gray-white fog descended and enveloped all space and time in its misty opaque oneness.
Before that stretch of road, however, the weather was always clear and sunny. There is a smooth long descent southward out of San Jose which then levels off as the highway runs past Morgan Hill; as urban images disappear they are replaced by agricultural and ranch-like landscape features with fences, barns, horses, cows, chickens, and the like becoming ever more prevalent.
The landscape include some Western-style ranches off to the right, not new or fancy but weathered and time-honored. It was during this early morning drive and along this particular stretch of road that the story I am about to describe to you occurred: the actual crime itself.
I might add, for the sake of the old-timers with good memories, that way back then highway 101 was only two lanes going down the hill leading south; it then widened to four lanes over the flat terrain that precedes Morgan Hill and Gilroy, self-styled “the garlic capital of the world” (and perhaps rightly so for anyone who has ever been suffused with the garlic aroma that arises in clouds around the Garlic Festival weekend).
To my right, as I drove down this level stretch of road around 6:00 am on a sunny June morning, I could often see horses, cows, goats, and other barnyard animals at rest or play. There was one ranch in particular that interested me the most as it usually had a score of chickens running around, pecking seeds and each other just to pass the time.
They were all hens save for one mature and incredibly handsome rooster who, for the purpose of this story, I shall call Andrew. The hens sometimes got on each other’s nerves, as hens do, but Andrew was always there to make things right. As I passed this spot each morning, I was impressed by how calm the scene always was and even managed to catch brief moments of tender interaction between this one rooster and the hens.
Andrew was a good rooster, caring and loving, and kept his brood happy and contented. Some special animals are born with almost human-like intelligence and I counted Andrew among the enlightened creatures of the earth, blessed with a dignified composure and wise enough to share his gentleness with the hens under his care.
For whatever crazy reason, the rancher decided that one rooster like Andrew was not enough for his ranch, for one day out of the blue a second rooster had joined the others. This second rooster, who I shall call Henry, was not at all like Andrew; indeed, he was the exact opposite. Henry was young, scrawny, and aggressive. He bothered and upset the hens all the time as much as he could but his main goal in life was to make a career out of harassing Andrew, the reigning rooster supreme.
Henry, in short, did everything in his power to prevent Andrew from maintaining the serenity of the barnyard. Calm dear Andrew for his part was plainly bothered by the dangerous and unpredictable antics of the younger Henry, since Andrew now had to deal more frequently with the suddenly excitable hens as well as the daring new instigator.
I might add that while Andrew was indeed the older of the two, he was not really old; truth to say, he was in his prime: a gorgeous rooster exuding beauty, strength, and self-confidence. He was only “old” when compared to his rude juvenile companion. Henry’s constant mischief and wild antics were so obvious that I could see them for myself, morning after morning, as I drove past this ranch.
Henry’s main maneuver was to run circles, both small and large, around Andrew. Apparently he was too immature for a direct frontal challenge so this endless circling was his preferred method of harassment. I believe Andrew would have gotten rid of the interloper mighty fast if he could have, without rousing the rancher’s suspicions, but that was hardly possible. The changing situation seemed rather unfair to me and I could not help wondering why the rancher added a misbehaving juvenile to ruin the serenity, but there was no denying the change.
Born and raised in the city, I am not enlightened to the practices of good farm management. Though it made no sense to me, I could only make an educated guess: Henry, the younger rooster, was no doubt acting on instinct and practicing for the day when it could challenge Andrew for domination of the hen harem. Henry was as yet too young to win an outright fight, especially since Andrew had quite an outstanding and seemingly inexhaustible bag of tricks.
He side-stepped, back-tracked, circled, feinted, and dodged about the yard, trying to keep the hens calm and himself between them and Henry the best he could. He always put their well-being first and appeared determined to avoid the head-on collision that Henry seemed to be inviting: a rooster championship fight to the finish, winner take all!
Andrew did all he could in order to avoid bringing the matter to such a violent climax, but Henry’s guerrilla tactics appeared to be getting stronger and more destructive day by day. I realized Andrew could not avoid the eventual showdown but for now he tried to maintain the calm of the yard; it was fascinating to see how Andrew put that calmness above his need to respond to the deliberate insults being tossed his way day after day by the young upstart Henry. Nevertheless, I prepared myself for the inevitable and began anticipating the moment when the two roosters would clash, hoping I would be in the right position to see the fight and its outcome!
At times I thought perhaps I was imagining things and reading too much into my observations, but a small occurrence one morning convinced me otherwise. There was a small opening in the fence between the ranch and the highway. I had seen hens go through this hole to wander amidst the grass and weeds next to the highway; I marveled at how swiftly Andrew would follow them and pretend merely to be joining them for a roadside snack. He then calmly but firmly herded them one by one back through the same hole to the safety of the barnyard once more.
Clearly Andrew understood that a hen that wandered onto the highway would not stand much of a chance! If the hens kept going through that hole, unattended by Andrew, it would only be a matter of time until one was flattened by a car or one of the big rigs flying down the highway.
Andrew showed amazing good judgment in this, as in all else. For his part, Henry would also follow the hens and Andrew through the hole, probably unaware of the danger to himself and certainly not giving a fig for the safety of the hens. Henry scooted out the hole for only one purpose: to chase and to circle Andrew, to harass, peck, and otherwise interrupt whatever Andrew was doing.
Once all the hens went back through the hole Andrew did the same, followed of course by Henry, still chasing and harassing Andrew the best he could. And so the days of the week went by that summer, a simple enough entertainment for my long drive as the early morning sun rose and warmed the day . . .
One morning I was surprised to see that Andrew had come through the hole, though there were no hens on or near the shoulder of the highway to hustle back to safety. It was relatively light traffic just then; the four lanes had very few cars whizzing by the ranch. These occasional interludes of quiet could still happen, although bursts of busy car traffic whizzing past also occurred, even that early in the morning.
Andrew had come to the side of the road by himself—onto the gravel shoulder with his feet nearly touching the smooth pavement of the slow lane. Most fascinating was Andrew’s attitude, for added to his usual calm nature was a stoic timeless quality; he seemed to be striking a pose and holding himself motionless. A finer model for a Greek sculpture one could not have found!
Had I not known better (only people reason, not animals) I had the strong feeling Andrew was waiting for something—and perhaps behaving in a way that even went beyond the name of “waiting” or “watching.” Andrew seemed to be counting, although waiting or counting what baffled me.
I did not see the end of this little drama that morning, but my glance in the rear-view mirror showed me Andrew was still stationary: counting, watching, waiting–but for what, I knew not.
Just as he was about to pass from view, Henry came through the hole to start his mischievous assaults and insults against the dignity of Andrew by running his usual circles and making a rooster fool of himself. Little did Henry suspect that Andrew’s mission that morning had a deeper purpose.
I mulled over this strange behavior of Andrew, as it did not make sense compared to everything else I had observed about him on previous mornings. I thought about it all the way to Salinas but finally had to set the matter aside once I reached the school and prepared for the day, my students happily and noisily trooping into the classroom.
The answer was soon apparent. As I drove down to Salinas the next day I could see something flattened in the first lane. From a distance, I guessed it was one of the hens that had come through the hole in the fence and wandered too far onto the highway.
Then, as I got closer, I could make out some flashes of red coloring on the underside of the little fowl’s carcass that made me suck in my breath and exclaim to myself, “Oh no! Andrew got hit!” Finally, as I got next to the spot itself, I got a really good look and could identify the deceased: it was Henry!!
I continued on my way, thinking to myself: “Bad luck for Henry” and “Well, that’s justice for you. That young irascible rooster followed Andrew around everywhere, pestering him and running circles around Andrew just to annoy and antagonize him . . .” and that’s when the phrase started repeating itself in my mind: “running circles around Andrew”.
Suddenly I flashed on the previous morning when I had been so intrigued and mystified by witnessing Andrew waiting by the side of the road, watching, counting, watching.
In an instant, I understood exactly what had happened!
Andrew had always behaved intelligently and shown me that he was an astute observer, not only of the hens but of Henry as well: his would-be challenger, the great disrupter of the barnyard. Wherever Andrew went, Henry followed and started running his loopy circles. Andrew knew this.
He waited, he planned, he shaped his opportunity to fit his needs. On that last fatal morning Andrew went through the hole, looking for his safe spot and watching for cars. When the coast was clear—a long break in the traffic–Andrew bravely walked onto the paved part of the highway.
Henry, of course, came rushing after Andrew and began running his usual circles around Andrew which took him farther and farther out onto the highway. Andrew waited for the next rush of cars and then, with impeccable timing, made it off the highway safely . . . but not so Henry. As the young rooster tried to return to the shoulder of the road—too late!–he was hit and killed by a speeding car.
The next day I observed Andrew calmly supervising his brood in a calm serene barnyard, just as things had been at the very beginning before the interloper had arrived. Andrew actually appeared aware of my presence; once we exchanged looks and a kind of silent understanding grew up between us. Nothing was spoken, of course, for nothing could be, but I understood full well what had happened and why.
Andrew had tired of the taunts and jabs of young Henry the Challenger but patiently had bided his time. Andrew’s little solo trip to the side of the road (which at first had so perplexed me) was not accidental but part of a larger plan.
His head tilted to the side was to maximize listening efficiency for the vibrations of an approaching car; he would be putting himself at risk to carry out this plan by “wandering” onto the highway. He would have to time this matter just so—enough distance forward to tempt the unlearned Henry to embark on one of his many wide circles taking him deeper across the broad highway, leaving just enough time for Andrew to escape safely but not Henry.
I thought about stopping at the sheriff’s station further down the road to report the murder, which by then appeared premeditated to me, but knew I would be laughed off the premises as soon as they found out I was talking about a rooster and not a person.
Besides, I sympathized with Andrew more than a little, as I admired his ingenuity in getting rid of his competition.
When the only reliable witness is both genuinely sympathetic to the alleged perpetrator and quite unwilling to report what he saw–not out of fear but out of admiration–what else can one call the events engineered by Andrew the Rooster that summer morning anything other than what it was . . . the perfect murder!!
