No, this post is not about Dave.
But I bet he wishes it was.
I have lost track of the many, many roosters that God has bestowed on me for safe keeping. That last sentence seriously escaped my typing fingers without a blush. It was only after it was on the screen in front of me, that I realize how ridiculous it sounds.
NO CHICKEN HAS EVER BEEN SAFE WITH ME. (Just ask Lola)
So let’s try that again:
I have lost track of the many, many roosters that God has burdened me with.
There. Much better.
But there should be a celestial limit placed on the number of mean roosters one person is dealt. Because I have had my share.
None rival The Chieftain, though. He scares the poop out of me.
He has now taken to attacking us. It’s all very traumatic. I’m going to try to get some actions shots tomorrow. Time is of the essence. Something tells me he’s not long for this world…
So, I had to, of course, separate this guy from the chicks when I brought them home in April. They are still separated. I had actually opened the door between their two pens late last week. I can’t tell you when I’ve laughed so hard, watching this ridiculous rooster, coo and carry on for the hens in the adjoining pen. Nothing — NOTHING — he could do would convince them to come over to the dark side.
So I shut the door a couple hours later.
About 5pm that very night I heard an awful noise: The garbled crowing of a young rooster.
I confess that right up until I heard the sound with my own ears, I had continued to talk myself into the idea that this white chicken could possibly be a hen:
I know. It was dumb.
But get this: I swear it is true. I got these at a local store that sold individual “heavy layer pullets” (that’s rural-ese for “hens only”). I went late in the season (since I wasn’t expecting Lola to kill my last two chickens in early April). I planned to get 3 or 4, but there were only five left, so I took them all. My only concern was the leggy blond one. “Do you think that might be a rooster,” I asked? “No, no, no,” said the shop keeper. “These’re all pullets,” he exclaimed!
“I been ’round the block a few times pardner,” said I, “And I know them chicken hatcheries can make mistakes!”
“Worry not,” he reiterated, “This is a hen!” Hen, my ass…
It is little consolation that I was right. Oh, I do love being right. But not this time.
So that explains the Mexican standoff the other day with the door open. And now I’ve got to figure out what to do. The Chieftain is a serious problem, and not just because he is a mean, MFing rooster that has emblazoned my legs with scars, but because he FLIES. He files EVERYWHERE.
I took my life into my hands to bring you these up close and personal pictures. Yes, I could have put the telephoto lens on, but that would have required a trip back to the house.
I have given up going out at night to put him into the coop and locking him in safe for several reasons:
- Because I forget
- Because I don’t care
- Because he is scary
At night chickens go into a chicken-trance and become very docile. Not him. You can pick him up, no problem, but he totally freaks out once you have him. So he roosts on the top of the fence. He’s been doing it since Memorial Day and is still alive to crow about it. Who am I to mess with his success?
But, if I do tempt fate and put the two roosters together in the big pen where The Chief now resides solo, he will teach this new flock how to fly out. And they will fly out and into the mouth of the ravenous Lola GSP.
And, then the cycle will repeat itself again: Desperate for eggs, I will unwittingly buy young roosters on Craig’s List, masquerading as hens by unscrupulous sellers, get rid of them and buy young pullets in the spring, only to be killed by Lola in late summer.
Make me stop writing now. This is depressing. I miss Sarge. He was the best rooster ever:
Immortalized and stuffed and now standing guard in my kitchen.