who does that?

Its a damn chicken!
Ok, let me rewind a little.
Earlier today I heard a bit of a ruckus in the front yard. A bit of caterwauling, some small amount of howling and this weird huffing sound. I figured the cats were fighting again. Fat Jack (the cat) would undoubtedly emerge victorious once again and the noise would stop.
But it didn't.
It got louder.
Fat Jack is a big dude, for a cat. He eats small dogs for breakfast and has a platoon of neighborhood toms just waiting for him to use up the last of his nine.
I hope they wait for a long time yet. I like this cat. He is one tough animal.
So I waited with perfect faith in his UFC skills to make the noise abate. It didn't. It not only got louder it started to sound like Fat Jack was tapping out.
So I opened the door.
I held my breath as I did this, I have been surprised in the past by a rabid lap dog, a 40 pound raccoon and once, terrifyingly, by a 13 year old magazine sales girl crying cause she needed to sell ten more subscriptions before she could go home and......
I sort of liked the National Geographic, but the other nine got boring really quick.
So, I opened the door, and slammed it shut.
Did a quick mental inventory and ascertained that I was awake and not currently taking any mind altering substances.
Then I opened the door again. Still there.
Fat Jack was getting his furry big ass handed to him on a plate.
By a chicken.
a chicken.
Once more...
A CHICKEN!
So, I whistled for Mr. Dog thinking that he would go out and have a little chicken dinner.
wrong again.
Mr. Dog made it back inside before the door was even open all the way. The chicken jumped off of Fat Jack and made this sort of huffing sound. Mr. Dog practically turned a somersault trying to get back in the house. I slammed the door in the beak of this foul fowl and looked down. Fat Jack had taken advantage of Mr. Dogs inglorious distraction to make a break for it and was sitting on my chair, licking a split paw and giving me a feline stare down. Mr. Dog was whining by the back door. IBS.
At this point I should have got the shotgun. But owing to a little misunderstanding with the local constabulary, I try not to shoot anything I don't absolutely have too.
So, I opened the door to kick the chicken.
At this point I should undertake to explain that it was not a "chicken" per se, but a "Rooster" the difference being mainly, according to my sources, that a chicken lays eggs. A rooster on the other hand, lays cans of whup-ass!
10 seconds later I was back in the house, breathing heavy and feeling like I had just run a mile in the cats and dogs paws. That Rooster was one scary avian-bird-flu-terror of the southern backwoods escaped from some chicken chain gang on the bayou thug of a feathered fowl.
So.
I called the nice little old lady down the street.
She has a huge nice yard and this summer she rented it out for a wedding. She borrowed a few chickens and a rooster to give the yard that authentic step in livestock poop, farmyard flavor.
I suspected this rooster, was left behind. On purpose.
Two minutes later, she sticks her head out the door and calls "CLUCKY'
a few times. This ferocious hell-bird calmly strutted home.
She named it Clucky.
Clucky.
Fat Jack, Mr. Dog and I just looked at each other.
Clucky.
She named it Clucky.
Who does that?