Rodney

Rodney the Rooster took his job as morning announcer extremely seriously. Unfortunately, no one else did.

Every dawn, he would leap onto his fence post, clear his throat dramatically and deliver what he called “precision crowing.” It sounded less like timekeeping and more like a chair falling down a staircase.

The ducks bless them, ignored him. The cows slept through him. Even the sun seemed to rise out of politeness rather than instruction.

Undeterred, Rodney introduced “advanced crow intervals,” which meant crowing, pausing, then crowing again louder in case anyone had missed it the first time.

By midday, he was exhausted. The farm remained unchanged.

Still, Rodney nodded proudly. “Perfect timing,” he declared.

Everyone else checked the sky just in case he was right.