But when I got home, the grill was cold- no smell of a grill heating, no plumes of smoke rising. .
“I thought you were going to light off the grill,” I said to Mr. G.
“Couldn’t,” he replied, “Sam won’t let me.”
Turns out, Mr. G had let the chickens out of the run for their walk-about, but once he got inside the house, Sam decided he didn’t want Mr. G back out. Sam had parked himself smack-dab against the back door and went into attack mode every time Mr. G tried to open the door. He was still there when I got home. Mr. G said the ornery thing wouldn’t budge.
Well, I got him to budge and got the door open, ran Sam off the deck with a broom and told Sam he should be ashamed of himself. Then I stood guard while Mr. G fired up the grill and cooked his steak. I pointed out to Mr. G that he’s a lot bigger than Sam, and I couldn’t believe he’d let himself be held hostage by a rooster. He told me he was half-dead from starvation and too weak to do battle with a mean rooster hell-bent on attacking him- and besides, Sam had awful big spurs.
I’m not sure it’s safe to leave those two home alone together any more.
I hated to do it, but I've turned on comment moderation. While I love to get comments and welcome them for the most part, there were several comments on some older posts that went on and on and on, apropos of nothing on the blog. Some were just long lists of strange links; some reminded me of the unabomber manifesto. Anyway, they got to be too troublesome to find and delete. So please do leave pertinent comments and don't get upset if I don't get them posted right away-- I'm probably chasing Sam around, rescuing Mr. G . or something and not able to blog just then.