From an original Annabelle B. Rodger artwork using watercolour paint on a white background. Printed on chlorine-free ultra-smooth card which is Forest Sustainability Council (FSC) certified.
A small card ( C6 Approx. height x width folded: 10.5 cm X 15.0 cm or 4 X 5 inches)
Inside is blank. Envelope is included in price.
All product images © Annabelle B. Rodger. No copying whole or in part without the permission of the artist.
**Read the 'Story of Rory' (as told to me by his owners Brent & Leanne.)
"Rory Rooster was a true character and a real gentleman to “his girls”. He would protect them fiercely in the event of danger but was very gentle to them and us too. Often he would scratch up a patch of ground and then stand back and watch while “his girls” had a meal of grubs, worms and other chicken delights. In comparison the new rooster “Prince” who was a nasty, mean, bully, a thug, and very sadistic in his approach to the girls. He attacked my wife Leanne and daughter Abbey without reason. He had a go at our son James a couple of times but got more than he bargained for. The short version is he was terminated! We had Rory for 13 years and he was an adult when we got him. In year 2000 we purchased our property. Back then it was just a house surrounded by trees around the perimeter and not much else. Fences were required and sheds needed to be built. Early on we realised we were going to have trouble with our neighbour. She turned up with a yummy chocolate cake the moment we arrived and wanted to know everything about us. With no barn to work in at night Brent passed the time booting a ball into the paddock for Max the Dobermann. Max was a young bloke and full of beans, Try as Brent did he could not wear him out. They would be away on a remote beach for hours with Max charging ahead. Max would cover five times the distance Brent did and still be “Ready to Rock”. Every night “Max the bloke” and Brent would be kept busy burning off steam booting a ball into the paddock with Max returning in a jiffy with the rugby ball in his mouth. BOOT – here it is dad, BOOT – here it is dad. The neighbour arrived and began ranting about the noise. What noise? There was no barking but it was the sound of the kicking of a ball. Like really? The lady had come over to complain about the sound of a ball being kicked on our property of 3 acres. End result – no more chocolate cakes.
The barn got built and the neighbour moaned about the earthmover and she moaned about the builder. One night Brent was in the barn and she moaned about the noise Max the Doberman made when he nosed his frisbee around the floor while waiting for Brent to climb down off the scaffold while he was wiring the lights. The neighbour moaned if Brent built a fence, she rang the noise police. She rang the noise police again when during the weekend in daylight hours the goat house was being built. If Brent nailed in a nail she rang the noise police.
One day the council turned up with a search warrant requesting that we reveal what was inside our barn and what we were doing. They informed us that we are zoned rural and that it is not an industrial area. We invited the council into our barn and the lady said it looked like her dad’s shed. The relationship with the neighbour hit rock bottom the night Brent was bolting a new tow bar onto the Chev. He was towing the trailer to Auckland the next day and it had to be done. The key word is “bolted” this means no hammering, no grinding, no swearing. Just Max the Doberman nosing his frisbee and the occasional tink of a spanner on the bolt. Brent was all finished and the barn locked up by 10pm. The kids were in bed hours ago and Leanne was also tucked up in bed. There was an almighty bashing on the door and much hysterical shrieking to be heard… It was the neighbour, she woke up the kids and Leanne and even Max began barking. Brent turned on the house lights and opened the door to a full on woman ranting. That is the short version of the event. The neighbour left and left the gates open so that our animals could have gotten on the road. The last straw had just broken.
If she says we are too noisy we are going to be noisy!
Around this time the mother in law told us the story of the Rooster at Foxton Motor Camp. Apparently the rooster started up at 3.30am in the morning much to the horror of the campers. The motor camp owner was in a pickle. He liked the rooster and chickens wandering about but was fed up with the noise complaints. Upon hearing this a devious twinkle was seen in our eyes. To be sure this saga was to be engineered with the correct outcome Leanne contacted the city council to make sure we could have a rooster on the property. The answer was yes as we are zoned rural.
Rory and his chickens arrived the next day. The very next morning at 3.30am COCKA DOODLE DOOO loud and clear. We had got ourselves a true professional rooster! After a week and a half of the daily dawn chorus we noticed a for sale sign up at the neighbours, Rory the rooster had achieved what months of negotiation and diplomacy had failed.
We were blessed with his presence for many years and didn’t mind his early morning chorus. In fact the place isn’t the same without him.
Rory outlived the hens he came with, we got some more girls for him which our son James named Betty, Angie and Carol after the local librarians. Angie lives on here with Clara and Brodie as retired pets who occasionally leave us an egg."
