Looking up at the elder roosters -- Goldie with his leonine neck ruff, Ian Puffypants with his checkerboard poof of leg feathers, and Heitor with his gleaming red saddle feathers -- Dancer knew well that luxuriant plumage was a rooster's biggest asset.
In this area, Dancer knew he could not compete. But Dancer had something else: he had soul. He had rhythm. He had a style about him that most others could only dream about.
And so that spring, Dancer cultivated his talent. Quietly in the side field he shuffled his legs to a silent beat. Alongside the ivy in the front yard, he smoothed out his shoulder drop. On the stage of the wooden deck, he practiced his head dip to perfection.
At night he reviewed footage of his matinee idols. He dreamed of the day when Magic-Mike style dance-offs would supplant the less artful forms of male machismo.
When The Human opened the porch door on a midsummer morning, Dancer could contain himself no longer. His inner dancer burst forth into a magnificent melange of dizzying dance moves that stunned his audience into silence.
"Oh, Dancey Pants, you are so cute," cooed The Human, stroking his sparse plumage.
"Cute" was not exactly the word of praise Dancer had been yearning for, but in that moment he knew his dizzying dance moves had captured at least one heart. It was a good start.