There Comes a Time.

There Comes a Time.

One day in late November of 2014, I arrived at my office with head hung down and shoulders slumped. Normally, my coworkers avoid talking to me in the morning because they know it will be a long and detailed story of what Mildred ate this morning, or that cute thing that Myrtle did, etc. But, being compassionate people, they asked me why I was looking so glum.

“I’m worried about my rooster’s health.” I grimly intoned.

“Why? What’s wrong with him?”

“My wife wants him dead.” I solemnly replied.

You see, after weeks of his bad behavior, my wife had had enough. She couldn’t enjoy the company of her flock with the proverbial sword of Damocles hanging over her in the form of an angry rooster. And now, that sword hung over him, only he didn’t realize it.

It came to a point where she insisted he had to go. There are very few options for unwanted roosters and the thought of ending his life was not a decision I was willing to come to lightly. We both knew that no one wants a spare rooster for any reason but one. I was not prepared to issue a sentence upon him unless I was absolutely sure of it. Some folks will butcher a chicken without thought and I have no compunction about doing so … but only under the terms of great need. So, we talked with some other chicken owners, consulted the interwebs experts, and called a local farm to see if it would be possible to obtain a replacement. For sure we did want a rooster, just hopefully a less evil one. I did, however, explain to my wife that any rooster could turn out to be hostile and we might find ourselves in this same position time and again.

I talked long and hard with my wife about the importance of ‘the boot’ and that every day, I offer Coq Au Vin a choice. He can have the treat or the boot. Four or five days a week he’ll opt for the treat. But some mornings, upon offering him his choice, he looks at me and says “Y’know what? Today I need to boot. My life just won’t be complete today until I antagonize you to the point to deliver to me a sound kick or three.” And I oblige him. I explained to my wife that when you think he needs to boot, you can’t flee, you can’t shrink away, you must stand there as if you have bigger balls than he does. You must be firm, stand your ground, and be prepared to deliver on your promises. I went on to explain that although you may do this with great aplomb, there will be days when he insists that he needs the boot anyway. You must deliver.

Bless her heart, she did try. But it isn’t in her. So, it fell entirely to me to straighten out this situation. Not only to create peace in our realm, but to save his life! The most extreme thing I did was to catch him, grab him firmly by his legs (let me tell you, you can feel the muscle in those drumsticks!) and carry him around upside down for a while. In front of the flock. On display until he calms down. Humiliate him in front of the flock. I kid you not, this is what the experts recommend. When he calms down, you’re supposed to hold him right way around again for a little bit longer, hand feed him some treats, and then gently put him down.

The reality of this is this … I convinced my wife to help me and catching that fucker in the first place was no easy task! But, I coerced him close to me with the promise of a good fight and, with heavy gloved hands, clumsily grabbed him. My wife had to help hold him still for a bit so I could adjust my grip. I can not tell you how brave this is of her to face the fear of this rooster to help me do this! I finally had a firm grip of both legs in one hand. But I was holding his legs to low down close to his feet and that son of a bitch reared up with knees bent and went at me! More adjusting, no bleeding, and a little bruising (I’m speaking of myself!) I finally had him around the thighs. Sure, while dangling upside down, blood rushing to his head, he was calm. Seething in a calm angry hatred of all things me. After a while, I up ended him and sensing he was still firmly held, he remained calm. But he damn well vowed not to take a treat from me! After a time, I gently let him down. I did expect him to spin on his heels and come at me, but he stomped off to sulk somewhere and shortly after, engage in some sex with the first willing hen.

 

At any rate, this was not going to be an overnight transformation. Not to be bested myself, I also vowed that I would somehow find his good side and spare his life. I told my wife that we would NOT be killing him, and that I would work with him through the winter and we would make a decision sometime in the spring. He had a temporary stay.

I want you to remember that I refer to both myself and the rooster as douche bags. They say that opposites attract, but in the case of my wife and me the truth is that our marriage works so well … I am so in love with her … because she is as big of a douche bag as I am. While she was unwilling to stand firm and kick the rooster, she DID enjoy attempting a bit of psychological warfare. Come thanksgiving, she actually paraded the turkey carcass in front of that chicken run as a display to Coq Au Vin of the possible fate that awaited him if he continued down the path he was on!

The entire crux of the issue is that he believes himself to be the big papi of the henhouse. What he doesn’t realize is that I’M big papi, and he can only hope to be little papi!

He had the winter and perhaps the spring to learn to calm down, or his fate was sealed.