My good friend Helen Vemer told me about the rooster that someone gave her, and I was surprised when she said, “Sue, I want to give you this beautiful white rooster.”

I asked, “Why?” but for the life of me I can’t remember what she said. Looking back, I think they couldn’t face the thought of eating chicken soup made from this beautiful fellow. Perhaps he was about to drive the Vemers out of their minds, as he almost did for us later on.

We put him in a gunny sack and took him home, more as a favor to Helen than from any desire to have a rooster. We didn’t have chickens or any fenced place in which to keep him. In a short time, he was eating his crushed corn and also drinking some of the cats’ milk. The mother cat didn’t mind because Chub was giving them an ample supply of Skyline’s warm, foamy milk twice a day.

Lone Rooster had a beautiful voice and was proud of it. He’d stretch up tall, rare back and sing out “Got the Whole Wor-ld,” in the proper timing and in true tone. He actually did have his “whole world in his hand.” For one thing, he was part-time sitter for the kittens.

If they started to climb out of their cardboard box he’d gently peck on the back of their heads to make them stay in. He paid little attention to them except when their mother was away. She had probably clawed his face to prevent his meddling ways.

Lone Rooster could be counted on to crow his “got the whole world” at about any time of day or early morning. ~~We didn’t need an alarm because his song woke us in time to get to school and work. He had no respect for our wanting to sleep late on Saturdays and Sunday~s.

Occasionally Lone Rooster nudged our Pekingese dog as if to initiate a romp or a fight. Fuey would turn his face away in disgust and then crawl underneath the lawn mower where the rooster couldn’t reach him. The little dog could chase big dogs away or make the barn cats scamper up the mulberry tree, but he was smart enough to keep a safe distance from that rooster. He had probably felt the sting of its spurs.

When the rooster discovered that we four ate breakfast near a low picture window, he joined us there almost every morning. When I knocked on the window to make him quit scratching in the flower beds, he’d disappear -- and come right back. He narrowly missed the soup kettle the day he scratched some seed out of the dry ground, piled seed and dust into a little mound, and then sat down on it and squirmed back and forth, dusting his feathers.

The kittens grew and ignored Lone Rooster. He suddenly discovered the image of a white rooster reflected in the glass of our utility room’s storm door. At last he had found a companion! He went through his repertoire of antics to attract and impress this potential friend. Getting no response from the “intruder,” he flapped his wings wildly and jumped high in the air, trying to peck the image’s head.

I often chased him away lest he break the glass. This performance was repeated occasionally when the light was just right.

The lone white rooster with a bright red comb died a natural death one summer when we were away, but we’ve never forgotten him.