Office Rooster

Uncle was fond of cake. He ‘secretly’ liked boys, so Mother brought cream puffs into the house. As a strait-laced civil servant, he usually ate dry, square pastries.
Now and then, he’d break free from the tight corset of office life with a loud imitation of a crowing rooster. It would start with calm clucking, and Father would hurry to close the window tight. Everyone braced themselves; teaspoons froze midair. Then he’d erupt into a hurricane of crowing, blowing the children back into their rattan chairs, teenage hairstyles askew.
Uncle died an early office death, in function, as a civil servant. He left behind neither child nor crow.