Roosters can be mean, but this one was lonely. I called him Earl Shickie. I was three.

My parents and I lived in the country near Coon Rapids in west central Iowa. I had no neighborhood playmates, but I had dolls and Earl. Maybe those days were the beginning of my shyness with people and my interest in animals.

Earl, a relative of my dad’s, gave us two roosters, and we ate one. The henhouse and barnyard were lonely places, so the remaining rooster wandered up to the house where I played in the yard.

I started carrying him around with me and named him Earl. He must have been extremely hot on those muggy summer afternoons. On some days, his neck stretched and his droopy head nearly touched the ground, but my companionship was evidently worth it. I still remember that after I put him down I had white chicken feathers stuck to my bare midriff.

Mom occasionally gave me a small dish of oatmeal for Earl. He pecked out of my cupped palm, which sort of tickled. Usually, I put the bowl on the ground and petted him as he ate.

Eventually, we bought some chicken friends for Earl. I got a little brother and I started kindergarten. Earl and I drifted apart.

My parents occasionally mentioned eating Earl for dinner, but I always protested. I imagine Earl died of old age.