The Chicken Coop Alarm Clock

Told by Cole Burnitt

I’ve owned all sorts of alarm clocks in my life. One buzzed so loud it sounded like a weed eater in the bedroom just a whirring away. Another lit up with blinking red numbers that could sear a steak at three a.m. I’ve even had one of those fancy phone alarms that plays music—except I could never hear it after a long night tending the pit.

But the loudest, most dependable, and most downright aggravating alarm clock I ever owned came with feathers and spurs.

His name was Rufus.

Rufus was a rooster the color of rusted iron, with a chest puffed out like he thought he owned the world. And every morning, long before God bothered to flip on the porch light on the horizon, Rufus let out a crow that could wake the dead and frighten ’em back into the grave.

Now, I’ve never been a man who loves mornings. My philosophy was always: let the sun climb a little before I do. But Rufus had other ideas. He crowed at five sharp, rain or shine, weekday or Sunday. I used to bury my head like a high schooler, under the pillow and mutter, “Five more minutes.” Rufus never gave me five more minutes.

One Saturday I decided to ignore him. Slept straight through that racket, dreaming sweet dreams of winning brisket trophies and folks cheering my name. By the time I rolled out of bed, shuffled out back in my boots, and lifted the lid on the smoker—the fire was stone cold. Brisket sat there like it had been embalmed, gray and stiff. Call the coroner cause I killed that one.

I stood there in my apron, rubbing my eyes, and I swear Rufus strutted by the pit with his chest out, letting me know, You shoulda listened.

That bird didn’t just crow. He preached. I am not talking Easter Sunday service…more hellfire and brimstone.

From then on, I treated him like my pit assistant. I’d stumble out before dawn, hair wild as tumbleweed, coffee sloshing in my hand, and there he’d be—crowin’ on schedule. I’d scatter feed, he’d puff and prance, and together we’d greet the fire. He got me up before the sun and kept my cooking honest.

One Sunday I told the preacher Rufus did more to keep me faithful than half his sermons. He raised an eyebrow. “How so?”

“Well,” I said, “the rooster gets me up on time, reminds me who’s really runnin’ this barnyard, and teaches me every blessing shows up early—whether you’re ready or not.”

Truth is, I started seeing Rufus’s crow as more than noise. He was a reminder that fire and barbecue don’t wait for your convenience. Neither do sunrises, chores, or blessings. They arrive on their own time, and it’s on you to meet them.

Course, I can’t say Rufus and I always got along. He had a mean streak. If I turned my back too long, he’d spur my boots, like he was keeping score for every late morning I ever had. I learned to keep a broom handy, just in case. Still, for all his attitude, I respected the bird. He taught me punctuality better than any boss I ever worked for.

Then came the day Rufus got too bold with the grandkids. I found him squaring up at little knees like a bouncer at the honky-tonk. So I held a barnyard meeting. (Mostly me talking, him strutting.) I built a picket “no-peck” lane inside the run—grandkid-height safe zone—and hung a tin sign over the coop door that says PIT CREW ONLY. If you don’t have feathers or firewood, you ain’t crossing.

From then on, we ran on a schedule. First crow lined up with my first stick of oak. Second crow meant spritz. Third crow? Time to check the color. I chalked EMPLOYEE OF THE MONTH: RUFUS on the shop board and meant it.

Funny thing: once I quit fussing about him, I started hearing him better. Some mornings I’m moving before he is, and I’ll catch him mid-yawn on the fence post like, You beat me today, old man. Most mornings he beats me, and I’m grateful for it. Because there’s a special kind of peace in beating the sun to its job and watching thin blue smoke twist up to meet daybreak.

Rufus didn’t turn me into a morning person. He turned me into a prepared one. There’s a difference. Prepared folks know the fire has its own pace and the world has its own clock. You don’t argue with either; you partner up. You show up when it’s time, not when you feel like it.

So if you ever swing by at daybreak, you’ll hear a rooster preaching and see a pit humming—both of us right on schedule. I’ll pour you coffee, hand you the tongs, and we’ll listen to the yard wake up: hens gossiping, kettle whispering, oak popping, Rufus calling roll.