It was the summer of my rooster and he crowed to herald the arrival of each glorious day.

Peachy was born in an incubator in the glass display case of my elementary school. Each day, my second grade class walked single file past the warming egg, watching wondrously as a chick emerged. At the start of summer break, my mother's signature absent-mindedly scribbled at the bottom, I threw my permission slip into the hat from which my name was chosen to be the chick's new owner.

In the kitchen, I released our new pet, who ran in mad circles, relieving himself with each step. The basement became his domain until the sad day that mom explained that his crowing was a sign of loneliness and that he needed to be donated to the Buffalo Zoo. I did not escort Peachy for this farewell, distracted instead by my father, who took me to pick out my first goldfish.