I usually leave the door to my quarters open to let out the hot air, and the old-guy smells accumulated overnight. There’s a point each morning when the sun overcomes the morning cool and I must close it. Also, as I work, keep an eye out that a chicken doesn’t walk in.
But this particular crowing aroused me from my miserable work and tropical torpor. I got up and closed the door.
Just now, an hour and a half later, I heard a another crowing that seemed to come, yes: from inside my room! I went to the door, Mr. Chicken rushed me, glad to be out of that lonely lockup.
There’s nothing meaner than catshit, they say, but I would propose to you that chicken poop is a semi-solid contender.
He shat but once in my quarters, and luckily on the tile floor and not a rug. It’s been many a year since I cleaned a floor of chickenshit, but unlike the good old days, a small cloud of toilet paper today replaced a barn shovel.
Small blessings.