Fealty Part Two: Phil the Pheasant

 Phil is—quite literally—the cock of the walk. Or block, if we had one. He struts and strums and flaps around the neighborhood, minding all the business. When the neighbor was unceremoniously returning a couple of this season’s renegade hens to the coop Phil came rushing up to voice his displeasure. In some ways, he functions as a free-range rooster for his penned harem.

Sir Phil, shaking off after His Royal dirt bath

Having spent three summers in the near proximity of peasants, Phil has grown accustomed to our ways. The lawnmower is something to be tolerated, not feared. The dogs of the neighborhood mostly ignore him and I worried that he might not be situationally aware of the hazard visiting dogs bring.

Millie, hugging Devin

When I was dog-sitting my grand-dog Millie—a beautiful golden retriever—she found Phil’s presence in my yard intrusive and flushed him and his fancy tail feathers to the nearest tree. Fortunately for Phil, Millie is a lover, not a fighter. My hope is he learned something from their encounter, but I worry.

Phil is very pretty. When the sunlight illuminates his breast feathers they glow an iridescent copper. He has an interesting pattern of dotted and striped feathers, and a bright red head. He’s also very “pretty.” He gets confounded by new experiences. For example: Phil loves corn on the cob. Last year when dining al fresco, I tossed my corn cobs out to the edge of the lawn where Phil was keeping watch. He enjoyed them so much that I started giving him his own ear to enjoy. Last week I found fresh corn on sale, four ears for a dollar. They were heavily picked over, with only a couple of sorry, naked ears is the bin. Perfect for Phil, I thought and tossed them in my cart.

I soon discover though, that when tossing a fresh ear of corn to Phil I had to make sure that the new ear landed between him and the old cob—otherwise he’d run straight to the old cob, discover it was picked clean and give me a look of total disdain and a scolding wing-flap.  Apparently, it’s not nice to “fool” Sir Phil. There is a particular standard of service he’s become accustomed to and nothing less will do. 

I shall endeavor to perfect my aim, Good Sir.