Have you wondered if roosters ever sleep in? Does their anxiety feel like a weighted blanket forcing them to hit the snooze button too? My neighbor Oscar, a gray and white speckled Brahma rooster, says there’s not a chance in hell. Every morning by 4:04 like clockwork, from across the street the sound of his crows are heard greatly overpowering the bell of the commuter train arriving a few blocks over. He never misses a beat. Prior to moving into the Garfield historic district, a downtown Phoenix neighborhood, I was under the assumption, like most I’ll bet, that roosters crow only at dawn and dusk. We would sadly be mistaken and Oscar has a lot to say about that, but he’s got a lot to say about everything. It wasn't until I moved here did I learn that roosters crow all day long, and for numerous reasons. From dawn until dusk in my one-bedroom apartment and every 15 seconds in between her crows pierce through my wall as if a reminder, figuratively speaking, that I'm not in Kansas anymore. There’s a lot I have noticed living in my neighborhood.
I’ve seen more animals living in Downtown Phoenix than I did growing up in rural North Carolina. To be clear, Oscar's crowing has little effect on me anymore. Neither does watching my neighbor feed his goats in the front yard while 4 of his geese watch. There’s a woman who walks all 8 of her chihuahuas at the same time, and yes, I have asked if they all belong to her. Every house here seems to come with a chihuahua in the deed. Even with 8 in her care and the one in every other home it still doesn’t put a dent in the countless stray limping chihuahuas, packs of feral cats, and the occasional lizard you will see on the regular. Though the sounds are the least of your worries
Hearing Razor scooter wheels pounding in between the cracks on the sidewalk as children race up and down 11th street doesn’t bother me. Not as much as seeing the naked woman masturbating in my parking lot on any given afternoon. The clown car horn on the concession carts racing up and down the block are more comforting than biking past a couple shooting up in Verde Park in broad daylight. Depending on the Saturday you can hear Ranchero music blasting out of your neighbor's speaker system in celebration of a quince, which I much prefer to the gunshots. Being asked for fentanyl, or blues as called they’re called here, is one level of annoying, but seeing the drug reduce people to walking zombies, however, is a totally different ball game. Hector, the clerk at Circle K, says it used to be much worst. And that is an understatement.
