And a fine lagacy it is.

As a recovering pack-rat, I can honestly say that my former hording ways brought me two good things. One was the overwhelming sense of accomplishment I felt after I had “recycled” my once treasured possessions. Dropping off huge suitcases full of stuff at the Salvation Army and filling several dust bins to overflow capacity was just the beginning. Gone is the Spice Girls doll collection, the Hummel figurines, the ever so lovely collections (yes, plural) of Bradford Exchange plates and other assorted bric-a-brac. Now I don’t want to mislead you. My apartment is still packed to the gills but is much less cluttered, more functional and relaxing. As I can now actually get under my bed – a space formerly occupied by more boxes and bins than I could shake a duster at – and clean it, there is no more slut’s wool (why use a phrase like dust bunny when you can say slut; I mean honestly) and I actually get a better nights sleep. Stick a pea under the mattress and call me a princess.

The second thing is that I discovered is that I come by my pack-ratting ways genetically. When my grandfather passed away, my grandmother founds boxes stashed away in their condo locker that she had no idea were there. It seems that he too had a tough time letting go of the past. As I brushed the sluts wool (yeah, I got to say it again!) off some of these same boxes that had made their way under my bed (I am telling you, I had pack-rat-itis BAD) I discovered something very important. A legacy much more profound that pack-ratting….

My legacy began in the small town of Smithville, in the small family run business of M.B. Cosby and Son. - my great-grandfather and grandfather respectively. Sellers of Massey Harris (later Massey Ferguson) farm implements and they were also a Studebaker dealer. It was a booming business in its day, but like the Studebaker, farming as it was at the turn of the century (sadly) and the dinosaurs before that, it is now extinct. Luckily, it was sold before things headed south. In addition to this enterprise, the Cosby men were breeders, buyers, sellers and exhibitioners of cocks. I mean the feathered kind. Get your mind out of the gutter!

In and amongst all these boxes were hundreds of ribbons and dozens medals my forefathers had won for displaying their prize winning cocks. The legacy started in 1894, as far as I can discover, at the Canadian National Exhibition. Some of the highlights include a 1913 “First Premium” ribbon from the 25th Annual Exhibition in Madison Square Gardens (if your cock can make it there, it can make it anywhere), several art deco bronze plates from the 1920’s and 30’s, judging pins and ribbons from as far away as Texas and California (I guess if you exhibit long enough, they let you judge too!) and two rather unique ribbons for “Best Shape Male” and “Best Cock in Show.” Well I dare say.

Naturally I felt it was my ancestral duty to carry on this fine family tradition. Enter Howard. You may think it foolish to have a rooster in a one bedroom apartment, even with a balcony. And you would be right. It is dang foolish. The plan was to have Howard live on the balcony during the day, have access to the apartment when I got home and sleep in his pen at night. Did you know roosters do that annoying cock-a-doodle-doo thing even in the city? In an apartment? You would think coming from such fine farm stock, I would know that. You’d think. Ah well. Suffice it to say that after a week Howard went off to live at my friend’s country estate. He now spends his days in the company of 10 hens with over an acre of land to strut around on. He truly is the cock of the walk.