How About That Peacock

With the inevitable smoky haze clouding my vision, I could of course bemoan the unfortunate fact that my imbecilic neighbours insist on adding to the murky miasma by setting off their own rubbish bonfires. But apart from the odd prank call to the city council with my litany of complaints, there's not much to be done to cure their patent ignorance.

Though I do covertly douse their fires whenever I can.

Now who do I call to complain about itinerant fowl?

Probably would be one of those curmudgeonly old fellows frequently calling up the complaint lines.

But even that can't compare to the latest nuisance brought about by my immediate neighbour. Obviously they figured Netherfield needed another featherbrained reason for bugging the aggravated councilmen. Not satisfied with burdening us with an entire chicken farm just steps away from my backdoor, the budding gentleman farmer has decided to purchase a peacock.

Yes, a peacock.

And not the delightful kind euphemistically spoken of by Katy Perry. I wouldn't have been quite as rankled by that particular display of bountiful .. peacock.

It's the feathered fowl variety that I'm objecting to. And rather than mildly irritating cockcrowing in the godless hours of the morn, we now get the oddly bloodcurdling cacaw noise from the lone peacock. Particularly chilling for being quite unexpected.

Though exactly what these amateur homesteaders intend to do with a peacock is beyond me. Purely for decorative purposes? Bred for feather harvesting? Trained to herd the marauding fowl? A fresh alternative for the Christmas turkey?

Now where did I leave my hunting gun?