Nobody Can Eat 50 Eggs.

"Nobody can eat fifty eggs."

Us old folks remember that line. For the 'benefit' of any young folks reading the blog, the movie is Cool Hand Luke. Paul Newman makes a bet that he can eat fifty hardboiled eggs in an hour. When he proclaims this, his costar George Kennedy exclaims with quiet astonishment "Nobody can eat fifty eggs."
So why the trip down cinematographic memory lane? Because I have fifty eggs in my refrigerator.

Fifty eggs.

I eat an egg a day. Often a stir an egg into the flocks morning oatmeal. Herself and I enjoy a Sunday breakfast usually cooked by yours truly of about five or so eggs.

And yet ... fifty eggs.

Happy chickens make happy (and numerous) eggs and this recent glut is from just eight laying hens. Two of them are not even an egg laying breed. The other six are way past prime at four years old. I'm starting to suspect that even Coq Au is laying.

Apart from that, yesterday's brilliant weather had the flock out in the yard enjoying life.

Here are a few of them visiting the dentist. That is to say they are (likely) refreshing their gizzards with new small pebbles for grinding up their food.

Here are a couple of the girls laying out for a nice sunny dirt bath. Please to note that they are NOT under the neighbor's bush for a change!

The spring flowers and shoots are growing, and just in time for the flock to eat them. Oh well, I'm enjoying spring in my way and they are enjoying it in their way!

Epilogue: Meet The Old Boss.

Epilogue: Meet The Old Boss

Floki was now no more.

Through the peaks and valleys of the whole experience, my mind had been troubled over Coq Au. With his fighting spirit beaten out of him, and him prostrating himself before us for care and protection through the worst of his persecution, would he be a capable leader once again?

He needed to be strong for his flock. I needed him to be strong for his flock.

By the next day he was strutting around with the girls once again, cooing to them to offer treats and rounding up hens when they went astray.

Perhaps he would be a fine leader once again. Perhaps, now that he had been truly humbled, and came directly to my wife and me for protection to the point where he would meekly sit on our laps in his desperation, a new Coq Au Vin would emerge from the ashes of the old … a proverbial phoenix imbued with a new found sense of enlightenment and gratitude towards us and his position in the household hierarchy.

Three days later … he attacked me.

Strangely, I took some measure of comfort in it as it meant he was fully his old self once again. I hated having to give him the boot, but since he had asked to be booted so enthusiastically, I obliged and smiled gently with pride.

Haec Fabula Finitur Duos Gallos.

A Tale of Two Roosters: Part Three, Le Morte D'Floki.

A Tale of Two Roosters: Part Three, Le Morte D’Floki

Disclaimer 1

Today’s post will be a recollection of the ultimate fate of Floki. Although it is centered around my feeling of the whole affair and thus not replete with gory detail, for purposes of the narrative I will have to include a few details. For those with sensitive constitutions I recommend you skip this one and wait for more upbeat posts to come in the near future.

Disclaimer 2

This is also not any sort of ‘how to’ blog. There are many sources on the net, in books, esteemed neighbors, experts in the field et. cetera. If you are here to learn HOW to properly dispatch and butcher a rooster my ultimate advice is do NOT take advice from some kook on the interwebs just because he writes a blog!

If you had been reading along lo these past several months, particularly the last several updates, you will understand that I take no decision lightly where my chickens are concerned. You may, by this point understand that I am a sensitive person and the following update was not only a very difficult one to experience, but even a difficult one to write about. Before I get into the details, I feel I must share a little more about my emotional/spiritual views on such matters. Please understand that the views belong to my wife and I and there is no expectation that any one else must believe the things we do, nor any admonition toward those that believe differently.

So here it is … imperfectly explained.

To me … all life is sacred. ALL life. Not some life, not all lives, but some are more sacred than others, ALL life. And yet, the very act of living and feeding yourself is also the end of life. Life given and life sustained. Perhaps it is a cruel system, but it is the one that we’ve got.

The carrot, the potato, the deer, the cow, even the mosquito. All sacred. All has its place, purpose, and destiny to live that life as fully as possible. Although, admittedly, in my weaker moments, I am inclined to kill a mosquito that has violated my person, and believe it or not, often give pause to the ramifications of the act.

This sacrifice of life to sustain life is a sacred circle that, like it or not, we all are a part of. Even the act of breathing, getting out of bed, brushing your teeth in the morning, can lead to the life and death of untold numbers of microorganisms.

And yet, life is not to be wasted foolishly. It is to be treated with great respect in all of its forms. You must sustain yourself, so nurturing the carrot to grow only to kill it for your table is sacred. Hunting the deer, using every part possible, so that you and yours may thrive is a sacred act.

Wasting life needlessly is an abomination. Pulling the potato out of the ground only to toss it in the trash uneaten is a waste of a life. Slaughtering an animal only for a trophy while the carcass is left unused is an abomination.

I often feel … and remember, this is merely the view of one kook on the internet … that many have become so used to buying a neat little package from the grocery store that many of us have been disconnected from this circle emotionally. We don’t give much thought to what is lost and what is given in order for you and your family to thrive. I am of the mind that every person … once … at least once … should grow and/or forage something edible to understand the sacrifice of life. I am of the mind that every person … at least once … should hunt or raise an animal for the table to remember the connection we have with the circle.

My wife and I decided to raise chickens primarily for the eggs, but we were not so foolish as to think a time like this might never come and we did prepare ourselves for this possible eventuality. Although it would have been easier to give our troublesome rooster to someone else to enact his sentence, we felt the responsibility of the act was ours to bear alone. We raised him, we loved him, we gave him the best home possible, and if we were to be the ones to pass judgment upon him it was only right that we needed to be the ones that enacted that outcome.

It was a learning experience on all levels, physically, emotionally, and spiritually.

So this how we approached it to best of my recollection.

We had made the decision and also decided to carry it out the following Sunday. Sunday is the only day both of us are off from work and able to clear our schedules so that we could devote our attention to this task alone. The fortunate side was that it gave us the time to plan the particulars and reinforce our research into doing it humanely. The unfortunate side was that it meant a few more days of torture for Coq Au and thus we continued to keep a close eye on him and the flock in general.

The first thing we decided is that I, with her assistance, would perform the actual act and that she, with my assistance, would clean and butcher the remains.

There are as many ways to quickly dispatch a chicken as there are chicken owners, everything from wringing the neck to a .22 bullet. I considered every method, talked with a few people who had done it, watched a few videos, and decided that considering we were only butchering one chicken, that I would refrain from purchasing any special tools or set up. The method I chose would be to hang the bird from his feet and as soon as he had become calm (see part 2 of this story), I would quickly decapitate him with a kitchen knife, severing the spine and jugular and rendering him dead within seconds. There are other methods that are faster, more efficient, cleaner, and just as humane, but they involved setting up a space for this act and with only one bird to butcher, I didn’t want to create a processing station.

My wife, already with a basic understanding of some of the cleaning process associated with preparing a Thanksgiving Day turkey, read up further on the proper way to skin and gut a rooster. Although we would have liked to save the skin and disdain the thought of wasting anything, I vaguely remembered the difficulty of plucking a chicken from my youth and any contemporary resources confirmed that it is a pain in the ass to do. This, being our first time, we decided to skin the rooster to speed up the process and reduce the possibility of overall waste.

Also, my wife had settled on a recipe. Once a chicken is fully grown, the meat is tougher. Particularly in the case of home grown poultry who are not kept in tight spaces and not purposely fattened up or given growth hormones; and also particularly in the case of roosters. So she decided on a slow cooking stew.

That morning she prepared an outside table and tools for butchering and I gathered three important things … a sharp knife, a length of cord, and most of all my courage.

So here is how it all went once we put our plan into action.

She placed the table and tools far enough away from our chicken run so that the act would not overly disturb our flock. I prepared a place nearby to hang him by his feet and draped an old sheet over it so that the neighbors would not be disturbed by the act. Then I considered how to catch Floki. If we let him out of the run, I would be chasing him all over hell and creation, but he would be hard to catch inside the run with the rest of the flock. So, with a little maneuvering, I managed to let the flock out into the yard while isolating Floki inside the run. I had already knotted the cord into a slip knot so that all was in preparation, but I knew tying his legs would probably be a two person job, so I left it on the porch until I could retrieve the rooster. With Floki in the run and my wife on standby, I entered with a large leaf rake (see the photo from part 2) and was able to gently trap Floki along the fence with the rake. With great care, I held the rake against him with my knee so that I could grasp him by the thighs with two hands. After a little fumbling, I was able to grasp him just as well as I had during our little adventures of trying to tame him. I brought him to the porch where herself went through the process of slipping the cord over his talons and engaging the slip knot. It was tight enough to hold him, but not so tight as to cause discomfort. Through this whole process, Floki struggled a little, but was relatively calm.

I took him to the post and hung him upside down from the cord. While he was becoming becalmed, I used the time to escort the flock back into the run. The LAST thing we wanted was for them to be running amok while we were dispatching one of their own, nor did we want to subject them to witnessing the event!

Between rounding up the flock and taking a breather, Floki hung for about fifteen to twenty minutes which is about right to calm an agitated rooster. Some roosters may even pass out from this, or so we read, but he remained conscious and was, indeed, calm.

Knowing that the method I had chosen was likely to be messier than some others, I stripped down to only my shorts. Bare shouldered, I felt the sun upon my back to warm me, and bare footed, I felt the earth beneath my feet to steady me. For the sake of the life we raised and cared for, I must be focused and quick. I strode up to the place of Floki’s final moment, pulled the sheet over us, and regarded the young rooster.

Floki blinked but once. He did not move, and he gave no indication of any thought about the whole matter. He had become a blank slate, seemingly to accept what was to become without fear or judgment. I grasped him by the neck up close to his beak and pulled downward just enough to make sure I had a firm hold and that his neck would be unobstructed.

As I drew the blade, I noted that the sinews in his neck were strong and that I must follow through with steady, quick, even pressure, and as the blood spattered upon my chest, I cried just a little. Naturally, the act of sacrifice troubled me and he met the experience with restrained bravery. It is my hope that no matter how many times I may have to do this in life, I will always cry a little.

Within a millisecond, though, it was over. Floki’s head was disconnected from his body and the spirit within the young rooster had moved on. We left it to hang for another fifteen minutes or so to allow the blood to drain from the body. My wife briefly comforted me while the feeling of the earth and sky washed over me once again. Another part of the circle was turning ever on.

I cleaned myself off while herself prepared her tools. By the time I reemerged by her side, we reckoned that blood had drained enough and we were ready to begin skinning, cleaning, and butchering the meat.

 The head had been removed, and thus we also removed the legs at the ‘knee’ joint. My wife began to open and skin the bird. Let me tell you, the connective tissue holding the skin to the carcass was tough indeed, and before it was done, we both had a go at it. I am confident that we took longer to do this than an expert and likely did not do it as nearly as clean as someone practiced in the art would be, but we did a fairly clean job and felt that as little as possible was wasted.

She also removed the lower organs. She fancies the upper organs, where I am not a fan. The upper organs were set aside for her to prepare later, and the only parts that were ultimately discarded were the head, skin, and lower organs. Once skinned and cleaned, the meat itself was cut up into large sections. This being a fully grown rooster meant that he would be too tough to broil, so we weren’t concerned with keeping the bird intact.

We’re all used to the white, slightly pink look of packaged chicken from the grocery store, but this meat … mostly because of the breed … is all dark and sumptuous, breast meat included.

After the processing was over, she packed the feet in salt to preserve them and took the meat inside. I discarded what needed to be discarded and hosed the blood from the area. I didn’t think we’d be letting the flock into the yard again today, but I didn’t want them rooting around in the blood if they happened to wander over to that area.

As for the meat, she took the large hunks and put them into storage bags filled with wine to sit in the fridge overnight. The mild alcohol in the wine would help break down the tough flesh and make it more palatable. She chopped vegetables and made her other stew prep and come the morning, she would begin making the stew. We spent the rest of that day in quiet contemplation of the act and the ramifications of the circle of life. We also wondered about the state of our flock, a big change like this could mean political issues, but forever the optimists, we held our hope that any changes in the flock dynamic would be for the better now that Floki was gone.

The next morning she began to prepare the stew, which was also wine based. Thus, in an ultimate twist of irony, Floki was to indeed become “Coq Au Vin”. I’ll never know if she chose the dish out of a sense of poetic justice, or merely because it is the most practical way to prepare an adult, tough rooster, but it pleases me to think that centuries ago, whatever French farmer who came up with the original recipe, whose name is now long shrouded in antiquity, had been going through the same situation with HIS two roosters!

The stew had cooked in the crock pot all day, and by the time I had come home from work that Monday evening, the entire kitchen was full of the aroma of it. Without a word, she served us the stew. We let a moment or two of musing over Floki’s life pass between us and paid tribute to his sacrifice and then began our meal.

I don’t think I could properly describe the experience. Any words I might add would only cheapen the experience, so I’ll leave the taste to your imagination and reflect on the satisfied feeling we both had in sharing a meal that came primarily from our own efforts. We had raised the meat and most of the vegetables ourselves and it was exquisite.

Left overs were distributed to close kin as a form of nurturing to our extended family. My wife enjoyed a separate meal of the boiled organ meat (and I did, in fact, have a small taste of the heart). The scraps of everything after that were given to the cats and … yes … some to the flock. They had to live with him, it was only right that they draw nourishment from him as well. Coq Au seemed to take great delight in picking at the bones for marrow.

There is a tradition of snapping the wishbone of a chicken or turkey and making a wish (hence the name). Instead, with this rooster, I processed the wishbone in such a way that allowed me to instead tie it in a knot. Floki’s wishbone, now tied in a knot rather than being snapped and discarded, holds a place of honor in our home … it is a testament to his life and reminder to us of the circle and that all life is sacred.

 

Also … weeks later, when my wife extracted the feet from the salt, in an ultimate act of defiance, Floki, who had been silent through his execution, left us with a message about how he felt about the whole process.

 

The whole experience reaffirmed for me my views of the sacredness of life and brought the principle of the circle into sharp relief. I hope I will never waste life needlessly. I hope I will always cry a little when a sacrifice is made. As always … I hope.

A Tale of Two Roosters: Part Two, Barnyard Arthur and Mordred.

A Tale of Two Roosters: Part Two, Barnyard Arthur and Mordred.

I had noticed something in the ensuing weeks. Coq Au Vin wasn’t interested in attacking me or my long suffering wife. He was preoccupied with the growing struggle for control of his flock. While no real friendship developed during this time between herself and our elder roo, she was momentarily satisfied that assaults had dwindled in frequency to zero. Floki, for his part, had never given a thought to attacking either of us. He was somewhat skittish and spent the days bidding his time. Squabbles between the two increased in frequency but all seemed to be sorted out so long as Coq Au maintained the upper hand … err … claw … or talon … or whatever. He would best his son on each occasion, firmly, but fairly. Each time, Floki once bested, would disengage and Coq Au would never give chase more than a few paces secure in the knowledge that he was top rooster and Floki was a member, though a contentious one, of the flock.

There came a Saturday morning, however. Friday had brought the rains and with it, a wet morning. The chicken run was muddy. Not overly mired, but muddy. As per usual in the nice weather, I went out in the early morning to bring breakfast to the flock and decided to open the run and let them forage the yard. Coq Au dashed out of the door in a blur, past me with Floki in pursuit. I dropped the oatmeal in the yard and followed quickly after.

Our boy, our baby boy, our proud rooster had been deposed by the young usurper. He was a mess. He was soaked and covered with mud revealing an early morning fight. Not a dust-up, not a heated discussion with flared cowls, but a full on rooster fight.

In the growing light of the morning, he lay there near the house in the muddy grass. Floki, momentarily satisfied with his victory, joined the girls to collect breakfast spread across the lawn in front of the open chicken run.

Coq Au, while laying there, looked so utterly down trodden. He looked so small. So defeated. Not an ounce of his once great pride within him. Any vestige of fight had been utterly beaten out of him and my heart broke for the proud king laid low by his own son. I took a quick look at him and saw that other than the mud and a few nips to his comb, there were no visible injuries. In doing this, I was markedly shocked that not only did he allow me to approach without taking his usual battle stance, but he allowed me to handle him. Although alive and (mostly) well of body, he lay there limply while I gave him a quick examination. He was physically okay, but his spirit had been broken. I rushed into the house and explained what I had just seen to my wife. The morning bleariness of only a half cup of coffee cleared from her eyes and she shot out of the door with me to witness the deposed king laying there in the yard while the young champion strutted about. While a careful reader of this blog might expect that the vanquishing of her backyard foe might cause delight in my long suffering wife, I can assure you that the opposite was true. Upon seeing the pitiful shadow of his former self before her, her heart broke as deeply as my own. I took stock of the evidence in the chicken run and found gashes in the mud where the warriors stood battle. I saw a spot or two of blood that had splashed on the side of the coop where a blow to one or the other had been landed. I also had a look at Floki. Although strutting around, drunk on the adrenaline of a hard fight won, he was also largely uninjured, but with a few nips on his comb as well. At least, I thought, Coq Au managed to land a few blows in kind.

On this day, on this first day of regime change, my mind minimized the situation. Although my heart broke for Coq Au, I was under the assumption that it was typical barnyard rooster politics. I was surprised at Flock’s victory and beyond empathetic for Coq Au for his defeat, but I figured that this would be an end to the trouble and Coq Au would just have to be the submissive rooster after all. I was wrong. I was terribly wrong.

Coq Au had been a mighty, but fair leader. Although he ruled, everyone in the flock had a place and he saw to it that every bird was cared for. He mated most often with Hermione, but gave attention to most of the girls in the form of treats. Stray hens where chided and corralled to the safety of the flock, he growled at looming shaped flying overhead, and fought with any, including me, who he thought might be a threat to the health and safety of the flock. Floki had not learned these lessons as well as he should’ve. On that first day, the flock spent all day outside, but Coq Au was relegated to isolation. At any instance where he ventured near the flock caused Floki to give unrelenting chase. Not a few paces to ensure understanding as Coq Au had previously done, but full on chase with hatred until Coq Au fled in terror to a safe distance.

On that day, on that first day, Coq Au … previously the least friendly bird in existence, sought his refuge on the porch with my wife and I. This poor soul, so full of pride and fighting spirit, actually approached us to sit on our laps and take food from our hands. He was like a baby chick again seeking the warmth and protection of the people that cared for him. When the blue sky of afternoon wore in the greys of evening, the flock drifted in to the coop and to the comfort of their roosts. Coq Au was determined to stay out and with his great apprehension, I eventually corralled him into the run while the other birds were inside. I watched from a distance to see if, once it became dark enough, if he would go in as well. He did not. He stood on the nesting box peering into the window and I knew he would not be going in on his own. Once dark enough, I crept in and gently cradled him in my arms and placed him inside on the roosts. The other birds, including the now mighty Floki, were asleep.

That night I thought over matters very deeply and decided that I would see how this played out, but with intense observation. The next morning, when I went to the run for the morning ritual of breakfast, I found Coq Au hiding in a nesting box … head in and tucked down in protection of his extremities from whatever assault Floki had visited upon him in the early morning light before I had a chance to intervene. As he sensed my presence, he dashed out of the coop to the outside run door begging to be let out. Floki gave immediate chase, but being on hand, I shoved Floki aside and allowed Coq Au to slip through the door to the safety of isolation. It was clear in that moment that if he didn’t get some spirit back into him, he’d be tortured by this new dictator who seemed devoid of any sense of caring for even the least member of the flock of which he was now in charge.

I spent that day and the next several days redoubling my efforts to find a home to adopt out one rooster or the other. One friend had chickens, but the ordinance in their town already prevented roosters. Another friend with hens had small children and was reluctant to take a possibly aggressive animal. Bruce was already top-heavy with roosters. Any contacts that WERE willing to take the rooster would only be doing so to have him end up in the stew pot. If the ultimate fate was for one of these two roosters to meet an end, my wife and I had decided a long time ago that the emotional burden of such an act would be our responsibility and would not be shucked off to someone else for the sole purpose of sparing us the visceral heartache of committing such an act.

I became desperate to try anything to save both lives. Here is what happened over the course of the next several days and weeks.

First was observation. Herself and I carefully watched every aspect of this and the details of the doings of the roosters and the flock. More on this below, but understand that we weigh every decision with serious thought regarding the animals in our care.

Second was hope. We desperately hoped that there was some way in which we could encourage the birds to coexist without sacrificing the life of one or the other.

Third was planning. We anticipated several possible outcomes and planned to execute the possible solutions as seamlessly as we could.

Fourth was action. We put our various plans into action as soon as we made a decision and kept the possibilities open for whichever direction needed to come next.

In observing, a new ritual developed. In the mornings we would let Coq Au out and while one of us were home, he would be on his own through most of the day. We both saw the continuing pattern of unrelenting torture that Floki was determined to inflict upon Coq Au and knew that if Coq Au did not gain confidence, and Floki calm down a bit, that one of them would have to go. We also paid close attention to HOW each rooster behaved with the flock when given the chance to be with them on their own terms in absence of the other. Each night, when the flock would go in, Coq Au would attempt to bed himself down perched on one of our porch chairs. I knew he was terrified of going into the coop at night, but I also knew a night outside without the safety of the run would be a death sentence for him. So a cradled him each night once it was dark enough and brought him to the roosts and just as on the previous day, he would make the mad dash out of the run in the morning to avoid the persecution rendered upon him by Floki. It was a sad sight, and although I can’t claim to have witnessed it myself, my wife is sure she also had witnessed Floki mount Coq Au on an occasion or two to cement his dominance over the defeated creature.

And so we hoped. Hoped that intense care, good food, and daily rest would help Coq Au regain confidence. As hope faded, two minor squabbles erupted between my wife and me during this time. The first came when the realization washed over us that *if* we were not successful in adjusting the attitudes of both roosters to a level of coexistence, that one would have to go. Although I was inclined to favor Coq Au, I mentioned that he might have to be the one marked for death depending upon which we deemed to be the ‘better rooster’ in terms of the health of the flock. My wife, both of usnow in an emotional state from days of caring for a broken rooster, literally raised her voice to a shrieking pitch to the effect of “If you decide to kill our baby Coq Au, we’re not eating him, we’re going to bury him!” She was overcome with the sheer injustice of such a decision, and although she was not wrong, I had to decide what was to be the best course for the health and future of the entire flock. What troubled me most was, that although Coq Au was better at ‘roostering’, now that he had been broken, could he be the leader he once was, even if Floki had been dispatched? The next spat came on a day when we were both to go to work and no one would be home. I was going to leave Coq Au in the run, even if it meant facing Floki all day, rather than risk him falling prey to an animal while neither of us were home. I figured he would spend a miserable day hiding in a nesting box, but be alive. My wife called me while I was at work that day to explain that she was leaving for work shortly herself and that she had let Coq Au out … my thoughts be damned, she did not want to see the bird tortured any more and felt that he would be safe enough outside and if not … the fate of a predator would be better than the daily torture he was experiencing. Bless her heart, when she put it in those terms, I saw that she was right, and so it was.

So we planned, and acted. Each day I came home, I found that Coq Au, whether we were home or not, was safe and sound. I would find him in usual spots and he always had food, water, and special treats available for him each day. Each day he would come to me for comfort, and each day I observed that he was not determined to die, but was so depressed that neither did he thrive. He ate, but with no flock to share his treats with, he took no pleasure in it. He wasn’t even inclined to crow anymore.  In the evenings upon coming home, I would let the girls out while isolating Floki inside the run so that Coq Au would have some time with the girls. He delighted in their company, but did not have the same strut he previously had.

As for Floki, since he seemed so determined to continue his reign of terror, I decided the ‘humiliate’ him in front of the flock (Coq Au included). This is a real thing. This is an actual technique to use to try to calm aggressive roosters, but usually for establishing your OWN dominance over the flock rather than establishing one rooster over another … so I wasn’t sure how this would ultimately work, but it does sometimes calm down an aggressive rooster.

The technique is this – catch the rooster (no easy feat) and hold him upside down by his thighs. The blood rushes to his brain and he calms down. Then, while holding him thus, parade him like a spectacle before the flock for a good half an hour. Let the flock see him in this state, and let him see how he is being handled before his girls.

Here is a picture of my triumph over Floki.

 

While this may seem like a medieval form of justice, I assure you that the rooster is unharmed and chickens tend not to understand the subtleties of our modern sensibilities.

After this, once he calms down, cradle him in your arms and give him treats for another ten minutes or more. Yes, this was my triumph, but it was not Coq Au’s. Although Floki maintained a healthy respect for me, his attitude toward Coq Au did not change.

I let this go on for a good two weeks. Each night coming home from work to spend the evening until dark with the flock. Allowing Coq Au time with the girls, humiliating Floki from time to time, and carefully observing who would be the better rooster. Although I had trepidation about Coq Au’s abilities for the future, since his spirit had now been broken, he was still healthy and Floki turned out to be a less suitable rooster that Coq Au had been in the past. Floki did not corral stray girls. Floki was a clumsy lover at best causing the girls to yelp uncomfortably and attempt to spurn his advances. Floki did not seem interested in keeping watch of the sky when the girls were foraging.

I tried very hard over the course of two weeks … regretfully allowing Coq Au to be tortured at times … to save the life of both roosters. But no amount of intervening had any effect on Floki’s attitude toward him, and I passed the sentence of death upon him. My wife wholeheartedly agreed with the decision and we settled into the idea of the hard task before us … the final plan if all else failed. The slaughter of an unrepentant rooster, and Floki was that rooster.

A Tale of Two Roosters: Part One, A Separate Peace.

A Tale of Two Roosters: Part One, A Separate Peace

Now that we had two rooster, a new political landscape needed to develop in the confines of the chicken run. Herself and I had read and experienced the stories of others with multiple roosters and were calculating all of the possible scenarios.

Harkening back to my fading childhood memories, our old rooster Romeo, a Rhode Island Red of great dignity and leadership skills, was a stoic character who was normally disinclined to fight. It should be noted that the circumstances of the chickens my family had in my youth were slightly different. We had more property, more hens, and more time and space for that flock to roam and forage to their hearts’ delight. Also we had more trouble with predators, so everything in life is some kind of trade off in one way or another.

In those days, when chicks were born, my parents would let them be and integrate into the flock naturally. There were more hens … enough to keep a rooster busy. I do recall one occasion when a rooster was born and he came of age. I don’t recall trouble with the two roosters fighting and thus they coexisted. Until the day my parents realized that the new rooster had developed a ‘sub flock’ of himself and a few hens. This is also natural and not an issue except that while Romeo would dutifully lead the hens into the coop and to their roosts at night when the sun was setting, the young rooster-come-lately would lead his sub flock to the lower branches of the trees at the edge of the forest. This is the least safe place for chickens to be in a world of raccoons, foxes, weasels, stray dogs, and all manner of other dangers to be. My parents culled that rooster very quickly and the political divide was no more.

In these modern times where I am a fully adult person (don’t laugh, legally and physically, I am), I had researched proper ‘chicken math’ and understood the ratio of one rooster for about a dozen hens is the right mix. Here we had TWO roosters only seven hens between them. Although this could be a problem, herself and I considered every anecdote we had read and seen to help guide us through the near future.

Two bachelor roosters. There is a roadside farm stand along the highway about a dozen or so miles from us owned by a kindly old Italian gentleman who really knows his way around produce. One day when we stopped there (before we had obtained any chickens, but we had already been considering it) we noticed that he had two fully grown roosters right there near the entrance. They were loose. They were hunkered down by the shrubbery as content as could be without causing a moment’s concern for anyone. We asked the proprietor about the curious circumstance and he explained that although he does not keep any poultry on his farm, his brother had encountered these two ‘spare’ roosters that were due to be culled. Spare roosters are as welcome as the plague, because normally they only cause trouble, but in a moment of sympathy, this man’s brother collected the doomed roosters and he had agreed to ‘adopt’ them for so long as they caused him no trouble. The two roosters, with no one but each other for company, were fast friends and lived quiet peacefully by the farm stand. But … this should be made very clear … there were no hens for them to compete over!

We had checked in with other poultry keepers and discovered three main themes.

1)      The sub flock. This is a scenario that harkens to the situation I described from my youth. More than one rooster is OKAY provided that you have enough hens to avoid too much trouble. While the roosters may have the occasional dust-up over political affairs, the dominant one will keep watch over the main flock while the other(s) will develop smaller ‘sub flocks’. This, of course, would be the best scenario, but with so few hens and no room to properly have many more, we felt it was very unlikely to turn out this way.

2)      The submissive rooster. This was the scenario we were hoping for if the first could not be achieved. The dominant rooster runs the flock. A few initial fights and the other rooster(s) capitulate to the superior rooster. Peace is obtained, but only the dominant rooster has breeding rights while the other rooster(s) maintain a quiet existence on the outskirts of the flock.

3)      Cull the extra rooster(s). Some will cull the extra roosters as soon as they realize they are roosters, carefully sexed while still chicks, or raised separately for the table to be butchered when they are just about old enough for their first crow. Occasionally, if the older rooster is now past his prime, he’ll be culled, but by then the meat is too tough and is only suitable for soup stock. I had even read on forum poster who explained that when extra roosters were born, they would cull the gentle, easy going roosters and keep the angry, aggressive roosters because they were much better suited for warding off predators.

We decided to wait and see. Here’s how it went.

Initially, Coq Au would chase Floki a bit and ‘explain’ to the lad that he was the dominant rooster and that Floki had better get used to that idea. Coq Au was never overly cruel, but firm and fair in exercising his understanding of control. Floki would run a bit of a distance away, and would longingly watch the doings of the flock from the outskirts. Herself and I were starting to be concerned that our little boy would not have a quality of life and began considering trying to adopt him out to someone with hens, but no rooster. But, so long as there was no bloodshed, we were reasonably content with the notion that even the life of a submissive rooster would be a good life.

In those days of Floki’s early adulthood, I began to notice a strange but encouraging dynamic developing. Even with so few hens, and Coq Au being so good at keeping a watchful eye, there would always be a girl or two that would wander off to seek their own foraging in a different part of our small yard. Coq Au would usually keep company with the larger part of the flock and round up stray girls when necessary. But now, with an additional rooster, Floki would keep the watch with the stray girls. Perhaps, I thought, a sub flock was possible in this micro environment, even with the bad chicken math.

Another strange occurrence was happening around that time. Whenever I would collect the flock to go into the run, Coq Au would invariably take up the rear, just in front of me, but behind the girls to help collect them … while at the same time, squaring off with me if he thought I somehow became aggressive. But with this new situation, Floki would lead the parade of hens. Taking the point position, they would follow him while Coq Au made sure all was well from the rear. Our two roosters were actually creating a cooperative effort in flock management.

One day, as I was standing on my porch, with the flock about ten feet away in the sun, some small bird of prey – a cooper’s hawk, I think – swept down out of nowhere. This hawk was too small to carry off a hen, but could’ve caused some real damage. Hens went fleeing in all directions for the cover of shrubbery and the like, but Coq Au Vin, full of roosterly aggression LEAPT into the air in an attempt to get to grips with the offender who was full on the wing. Floki ALSO made a half hearted youthful attempt to get to grips with the hawk. Coq Au may have even landed a talon on the invader, it was that close. The hawk flew off and the roosters and I went about the business of collecting the hens and soothing shattered nerves. We paraded back into the run after that.

This should be made clear. The events of the hawk happened within the span of an instant in time. It was the damnedest thing I had ever seen, and although I am glad to have been on hand at the right moment to assist, my slow human reaction was no match for my two roosters! Medals were awarded and full military honors given.

On a side note, I am not handy with a camera, that’s why I have so few pictures on the blog. I do not have a good picture of Floki, but Floki grew up to become an Adonis in rooster form. He stood tall, well proportioned, and looked like the original model for every weather vane ever produced. To be fair, Coq Au, although not as tall, is also a magnificent looking creature and more barrel chested. From the few photos, you can see he is a powerful beast, indeed.

As the weeks passed, however, things began to take a turn. By and by in subtle degrees. I first noticed that Floki, when watching the stray girls, would try to get ‘the sex’ on the sneak. He was NOT accustomed to doing a proper mating dance and had NOT learned how to be a proper, gentle lover the way Coq Au had become. A hen would often squawk and spurn his advances causing Coq Au to immediately charge over to put an end to the situation toot sweet. Floki would keep trying, however and this was causing some friction.

It is the habit of chickens to go into the coop at night as the sun sets. Sometimes, pecking order plays a part, sometimes not, but they generally filter in one by one until one or two hens are left in the hard. As the sky darkens, they make their way in as well. The usual circumstance is for Coq Au to go in first (I consider it likely that this is because after the stresses of watching the flock all day and listening to the incessant chatter of the hens about union meetings, egg quotas, gossip about broody-ness and what not, he’s had quite enough and is content to turn in). Hortense is invariably the last to go in. As I’ve described ad nauseam, she is not at the bottom of the pecking order and has no political issues, she mearly regards her alone time as sacred and enjoys a few moments peace for herself. But the new trend was for Coq Au and Floki to be out after the girls (including Hortense) have gone in. They would be arguing. A back and forth squabble of roosterly squawking would occur. It really did sound like a heated conversation. One that reminded me of an old anti-drug PSA of a father confronting a son about drug use, but in our context, the conversation went more like this:

Coq Au: You were trying to have sex again with one of your aunts. What’s wrong with you? Where did you learn that tape of behavior? ANSWER ME!

Floki: I learned it by watching YOU, dad. I learned it by watching you!

Things began to come to a head one Saturday while I was out with the hose cleaning the chicken fonts and providing fresh water. Both roosters squared off directly, only Floki was NOT inclined to back down. Cowls were fully flared and they came to blows. A goodly blast from the hose calmed them down. The troubling part of this was that Floki was no longer content to be chided, he would need to test his meddle directly in pitched battle.

I set about the business of attempting to find a suitable home for Floki. Extra roosters are next to impossible to adopt out, so I was still hoping that they would resolve the issue between themselves without resorting to bloodshed. Hopefully, one good battle would be all it took for one rooster to prevail and one to learn to be content with his place in the world.

Dateline - May 6th, 2017.

Dateline - May 6th, 2017

I have been caught up with the business of life and its stresses and careless about updating the blog. To my dear readers, I humbly apologize. There is more story to tell yet about the doings of the past, but this just happened today so I thought I would share.

For those that don't know what an 'eggsong' is, the sound is hard to describe. The phenomenon is not hard to describe, when a hen lays an egg she 'sings'. The sound is almost, but not quite entirely, unlike singing. What it is, is an uncomfortable sounding cacophony of squawking and carrying on that sounds half way between pride and murder. When one of the girls sings, Coq Au is so disturbed by the sound that he starts squawking and carrying on with equal enthusiasm until he and hen calm down. This happens, as you can imagine, several times a day.

Also ... my lawn mower is broken beyond repair. Other matters more pressing in life have prevented me to do much about it, so I've let it go and the grass has reached nearly knee high.

So ... on with today's events. About noon I let the flock out to forage the high grass and enjoy the cool mid spring day. They wandered about while I busied myself indoors with this or that. I wasn't keeping a close eye, but they were quiet and that is usually a good sign.

A couple of hours into it and the clouds darkened so I figured it was a good time to get collect them into the run. Coq Au, Myrtle, Hermione, Hildegard, Lily, Petunia, Ermatrude, Mildred all went in like good birds. Matilda was not there, but that is not unusual. Lately she has been on the bottom of the pecking order and goes off to be away from the flock picking on her (this is a story for another day), but I always know where she goes and she gently comes to me for special treats and to be escorted by hand back to the run.

Hortense was also missing. ALSO not unusual because she likes to be by herself but usually can be found in a private dust bathing spot where she is pampering herself. This time, she was nowhere to be found.

I checked all of her usually 'me time' spots. Nothing. Waded through the tall grass of my yard with confidence that she was SOMEWHERE nearby unseen. I checked with my neighbor who cautioned me that the chickens have been wandering more into her yard (a gentle chide, they were not there now), and she went on to caution me to be careful of ticks while wading in my own tall grass (another gentle chide at the state of my lawn). I assured her that chickens are a great tool for keeping a yard low on ticks and asked her to alert me if Hortense turned up. With growing concern, I checked under the canoe, in the shed, near the compost, under all the bushes. Checked INSIDE the coop more than once. Made a half a dozen circles around the house ... nothing. Went inside, tried to think, back out for another circuit, nothing. If a predator had come along, I would've heard a great disturbance. If she wandered into the street (unusual), I would've seen a flattened bird. By nature, they don't wander too far, but if she was inclined, she'd be cautiously loping up the yards and I'd spot her. Nothing.

I went inside for another round of panicking.

Back outside for another circuit. As I am turning the corner from the front of the house and hear a particularly loud concert of chatter from the back ... eggsong and rooster in a duet that was an assault on the hears. As I came along that side, I quickly realized the 'hen' part was NOT coming from the coop but was off a bit to the right. Hortense came out from her hiding spot near the compost (a spot I had checked several times already) proudly announcing her accomplishment. Coq Au was in rare voice as his girl was NOT where she was supposed to be and had escaped his notice!

Flock reunited, egg collected, and I am very relieved.

Sometimes, my hens can be douche bags too.

Prologue: Which Bathroom is He Supposed to Use?

Prologue: Which bathroom is he supposed to use?

Things were going very well. Each minor crisis was met with a renewed vigor, the flock spent another summer without incident, Lagertha was becoming almost as large as the fully grown birds, and Coq Au Vin and had settled into a workable routine with each other. We avoided each other for the most part with a distanced mutual respect and once every two weeks or so he decided that life would not be complete unless I delivered to him a good booting. You could tell in the days leading up to it because he would posture in front of me and this will be difficult to describe. When chickens forage around, they are bent over, searching the ground for morsels, and pick up this or that tasty bug, treat, cracked corn, or whatever. They look intense, but serene. Coq Au rarely forages, but when he does, he also looks intent and serene. As I’ve described before, he usually doesn’t eat what he finds, but calls a girl over and gives the treat to her. Sometimes it is only out of a sense of his inner altruism, sometimes he launches into his weird stiff-legged mating dance. But on the occasions where he is posturing for a fight, he bends down with the same intensity but with an underlying seething hated that causes his movements to almost tremble. He’ll pick up something useless like a piece of straw and put it back down with equal muscular tension. As he does this he grumbles under his breath: “I’m gonna pick up THIS piece of straw … and now I’m gonna put it over HERE! Then I’m gonna pick up THIS piece and put it over THERE! THAT’LL show YOU who’s the *REAL* boss of THIS yard!” … and on and on. That’s how I know a flurry of talons and feathers is only a day or so away and a good booting is in order. On those days he pleads with me. “Please, sir … oh please. My life can not be complete on this day unless I’ve had a sound kicking!” and I am forced to oblige.

Thus, life went on in this way but the nature of the flock was about to be drastically changed, and for a long time to come.

While watching the flock foraging the yard one fine autumn day, I took special interest in how lil Lagertha had grown.

“She’s magnificent,” I thought. “Just look how much greener the beetle-sheen is on her black feathers than the older girls! Her legs and tail feathers are becoming stunningly long too, and … ah crap.”

Disheartened, I turned houseward to ignore the issue I had discovered with the deep, deep wish that I was wrong and that it would just simply go away if I closed my eyes hard enough. My respite was short, though.

The following day, herself and I were out in the yard to make the decisions on early fall activities. What plants needed to be pulled, what summer junk needed to be tossed or put away, etc. The flock was once again out foraging and basking in the early autumn sun. My wife outwardly began the same conversation to me that I had with myself only a day before. I had said nothing to her, she was musing the same way I had been.

“Look at how beautiful Lagertha’s tail is and how tall she’s getting!”

“That’s because ‘she’s’ a rooster, my love.”

“Ah crap!” my lovely bride said in complete echo to the tone that played in my head yesterday.

With our mutual discovery of the same problem, I could no longer keep myself in denial. She had just seen the same thing I had seen and confirmed all of my suspicions and fears.

We made no decisions that day except to change her name from “Lagertha” to “Floki” (a tricky, enigmatic character from the same Vikings program that she and I were enjoying from which we had chosen the name “Lagertha”.

Little did I realize at that time just what an epic struggle was about to befall our household. This was the harbinger akin to the mythic tales of old that belie a story of Arthurian proportions.

Of Rolaids and KY Jelly.

Of Rolaids and KY Jelly

Everyone needs help sometimes. Even a strong leader can fall ill to some ailment large or small and be brought low for a time. A little help, a little recuperation, and a renewed attitude on life can do wonders.

One day, I walked out to the run to see the flock and tend to their needs. By and large, chickens are a lot hardier than they look and if properly fed and housed, they pretty much take care of themselves. Never the less, issues do arise from time to time and keeping a careful eye helps prevent minor issues from becoming major catastrophes.

Chickens have their own social structure and their own laws for dealing with issues. To the casual outside observer, trouble is usually responded to by hens fleeing for cover in all directions. While this is at least partially true, their social structure also gives the flock order and each hen plays a part. But if a hen is sick or injured, they will keep a distance from the others. Chickens, on their own, have no doctors. A sick or injured hen can put the whole flock at risk so they can have a natural tendency to pick on an injured hen, or chase away an ill hen. A sick or injured hen will also seek her own company away from the flock for these same reasons.

For reasons that weren’t immediately apparent, the alpha female, Hermione (also the smallest hen, oddly enough) was standing fairly still away from the rest of the flock. She is also Coq Au’s favorite girl so it was quite odd that neither he nor the rest of the girls were paying her any mind at all. Nor was she seeking their company. She is usually in the thick of things laying down the law to the other girls and strutting pridefully around, but today she seemed somewhat sullen. She was standing kind of funny too.

I opened the run to let the girls out into the yard and she was reluctant to come out, but she did. I threw down some treats and the girls clamored over each other to get them, but she didn’t come near. I threw some in her direction and noted that she took a passing interest and did eat some. If she’s not off her food, then it can’t be too bad, but I watched.

Hens have a very distinctive shape to their bodies. Especially good layers, and Hermione was one of the best. She lays large eggs for a girl of her slight frame, but her shape was all off. The way she stood, the way she walked, it was almost penguin-like. By now, I had read and reread enough of the common chicken ailments to know that she was probably ‘egg bound’.

'Egg bound' is where an egg is stuck in the hen’s laying tract and can be anywhere from uncomfortable to downright painful for her. And … as per usual … if not handled properly … can be fatal. An egg bound hen can’t walk right, stand right, sleep right, or eat right and her laying tract can continue to become backed up. I spent the next half an hour trying to catch her without injuring her or attracting too much attention from an angry rooster and thus becoming injured myself! She was not at her best and disinclined to bunch up with the rest of the girls so a little gentle patience won the day and I caught her. She was terrified when I out the blanket over her, but that calmed her quite a bit. I brought her into the house, washed my hands, gently held her on her back in the bath tub and gently, very gently, probed her cloaca. Sure enough, there was an egg in there and for whatever the reason, she was having trouble laying it.

I released her back outside and went off to consult the mystic chicken gurus of the interwebs whose dread knowledge is the answer to all questions great and small and reviewed the possible outcomes. The best outcome was that she would pass the egg herself in a few hours to a day, but there were great cautions against just letting it go. The worst case was that she would continue to be bound up and die. There was NO WAY I was going to allow that to happen to our little devil-may-care punk rock girl! The middle ground would be to puncture the egg and thus let it break. While this would reduce the size and allow it to pass, extracting the shells would need to be done with practically surgical precision or they may injure the soft internal tissue of the hen and thus put her at great risk. This being my first go around with an egg bound hen, I was NOT going to go that route!

I decided that she would have to pass the egg herself, but that there were things to do to help her and I was willing to do them! I ran out to the store for some Rolaids and KY lubricant. I also called my wife and let her know what was going on so that she didn’t question why there was a chicken in the house. Oh crap … I let her go outside and would have to catch her again.

After a second half an hour with a more wary hen, I had her under the towel again. She was scared again, but calm. I brought her back into the bathroom and filled the sink with warm water. The experts explained that one of the causes could be stress and soothing the bird in a warm bath would help her tension relax. Who knew that chickens got stressed? Who knew they like warm baths? Well, no one explained this to Hermione because she had no interest in sitting down in the warm water. She stubbornly stood in the sink without letting her bottom come NEAR the water.

While this battle of wills played out in slow motion, I took a couple of Rolaids and broke them into small pieces. You see, one of the causes for being egg bound could be lack of calcium, and anyway, the extra calcium carbonate would stimulate the egg laying process. What the geniuses of the web failed to mention was how to get a stubborn hen to TAKE the pieces of Rolaids. So there I was. A confused hen standing in a sink full of warm water staring blankly at me while I offered her some antacids. You can’t make this stuff up.

Added stress be damned, a grasped her and got a few pieces into her beak. She was going to get better whether she wanted to or not and the union rep was not around for her to lodge a formal complaint! Next came the ‘fun’ part.

As per the best advice of the knowledgeable experts, I held poor little Hermione on her back again in the bathtub while I gently (and I do mean gently) probed her cloaca with a finger full of KY. Man, the egg was so near the surface and it was indeed large. Her vent did look red and swollen from the effort of trying to lay this monster that I felt like the KY would, in fact, do some good, but if anyone had told me a year ago that I’d be in my bathroom with a finger lodged a knuckle or two deep into the underside of a live hen, I’d have said that would have been a very unlikely scenario. But … here we were, Hermione and I, at the moment of a trust bond in our familial relationship.

After I felt like that spread as much personal lubricant around the affected area as I could and had gotten as many pieces of Rolaids into her as she was willing to take, I set her down on a soft pillow in a blanket with a warm towel over her so she could relax and de-stress. An hour later I repeated my failed attempt to give her a soothing soak and out her back to rest. An hour after that, herself came home.

“Where’s the poor baby!”

I gently shushed her and took her into the bathroom for a peek. After she was sure our little leader of the flock was resting comfortably, I explained what I had done so far and that soaking for fifteen minutes each hour was recommended, but that I was having trouble with that. With soak time approaching, my wife helped me. She held Hermione by the body, while I folded her legs in a bit and we got her to make contact with the water. We had to hold her in place with a hand on her back, as she remained perpetually unconvinced that a soak was a good thing. We were going to repeat the process through the evening until she laid her egg, hopefully by morning, but her time away from the flock was cut short.

At some point, as evening approached, even though the lights in the bathroom were off to keep her calm and allow her to rest, she decided it was her new mission in life to kill the strange hen she encountered in the mirror. That hen didn’t look like anyone she knew and it didn’t smell like … well … it didn’t smell like anyone at all! So, she or her, one of them had to go!

With this new ruckus, we knew her time at the spa had come to an end. We were a little fearful of returning her to the flock, she was still egg bound, and now having been away from the flock for hours, the others might treat her with suspicion and pick on her. Fortunately, it was getting dark and the hens were looking to go to bed, so once they were in the coop, we placed her gently in one of the nesting boxes and hoped for the best.

I’ll never know if it was the calcium carbonate, the KY, the soak, or just time, but next day she passed the egg. With crisis narrowly averted, the flock returned to normal and Hermione resumed her place as the top girl, although Coq Au let her rest for a few days before resuming his particular brand of attention to her. At least he had that much class.

Childhood Can Be Heartbreaking.

Childhood Can Be Heartbreaking

When I was small and my parents had decided to get chickens, they had fixed up an old outbuilding on the property, obtained the needed supplies, and the neighbors kindly had given them some fertile eggs. We incubated them in the house with a small incubator and witnessed the hatch before our eyes. I am so grateful for my parents for growing up how I did and getting to see the things that a lot of kids miss these days.

The following spring, one of those hens hatched her own babies and to this day it is one of my mother’s fondest memories watching them emerge from the coop for the first time … little yellow fluff balls … their mother gently calling them outside and patiently teaching them how to scratch around and all. I saw these things when I was young. I delighted in collecting the fresh eggs. I watched where I stepped when barefoot in the yard. I witnessed my father dispatch predators in the coop. But there are sometimes little things that you don’t pick up on as a child that you understand later. I’m not sure if it was my parents, the times, or my own moral compass, but I find myself instilled with a strong sense for nature in all its forms. You don’t change nature, you understand it … and … when it is YOUR flock and YOUR patch of nature that you are responsible for, you manage it. You gently help shape it, but it is a light touch where less is more.

Two days after Lagertha hatched (one chick out of fourteen eggs … my light ‘touch’ needed to be just a little more involved) she emerged from the coop under mama’s watchful eye. I had read accounts of roosters and/or dominant hens picking on new babies so I watched with careful eye as often as I could. Mama stayed close by, always clucking with a gentle cluck. Some of the other girls were annoyed by the new member that would one day have full voting rights with the union and they sometimes tried to assert themselves over the baby. Mama was always there, but what about Coq Au?

Turned out, whenever lil Lagertha ran afoul of one of the hens and Mama was a pace or two too far away, she would dash under Coq Au’s legs and he would stand watch while the offender would then skulk away! For all of his faults, he’s a good chicken daddy as well.

So, chickens maintain their own politics and it was only a light touch they needed in this matter. They’re never going to act like people, in order to manage things, I have to think more like a chicken. If a hen picks on another hen, it is just politics so long as no blood is being spilled and no one is injuring on another.

But … I have a human heart. The great and powerful Oz once counseled the Tin Man that hearts will never be practical until they become unbreakable. Each night, the flock would hop up on their roosts as normal while mama and baby would bed down together in the nest. Touching to see, and a reaffirming of life. As each week passed, Lagertha grew larger and grew more and more feathers. Then, one fateful night it happened. I went out to the coop one evening and heard the most mournful cry I could ever hear emanating from within. I peeked through the window and saw that mama had had enough of child rearing. Little Lagertha was quite big enough and she wasn’t going to ‘baby’ the young chick anymore. Mama had climbed up onto the roost with the flock and Lagertha, still too little, but fully feathered, was left crying in the nest. I fought every one of my instincts to keep myself from pulling mama down, or attempting to put Lagertha up, or to keep from bringing the crying hen into the house for the night for special treats and a warm pillow. Lagertha had to learn to ‘chicken’ and that sometimes is hard. This particular situation was made harder in my mind by that fact that had more eggs hatched, Lagertha would’ve at least had siblings to share her misery and to turn to for warmth and comfort. But the poor baby was on its own to face the politics of the flock. A singular member of her generation.

She cried at night for a few days … less and less. Mama and baby were still inseparable during the day and Lagertha’s Aunt Hortense, who normally likes to be by herself, palled around a bit too.

Eventually, Lagertha grew big enough to squeeze in onto the roost with the big girls, but it was a hard few days to watch.

For me, the experience is like how you feel when you witness a small child whose balloon has gotten away from them. Maybe they cry, maybe they laugh, but for them the world quickly moves on. I always feel more devastated for the child witnessing the balloon escape than the child does themself!

Coq Au Vin's Sentence of Execution is Commuted.

Coq Au Vin’s Sentence of Execution is Commuted.

With herself and I now looking forward to the warm spring days, we were turning our attention to preparing the ground for gardening. This is where Coq Au came as near to a death sentence as he had gotten ever before. My wife is normally a confident woman who is perfectly capable in all ways of confronting any situation out before her. One of the reasons that I love her so much is that she has a personality strong enough to keep me from getting away with bullshit. She moves through her life that way with a strong sense of rooting out other people’s bullshit and feeling perfectly comfortable with calling them out on it. Somehow, she was unable to bring that wonderful trait of hers to bear in dealing firmly with our rooster. She was reaching a level of being upset over the prospect of facing an angry rooster every time she wanted to enjoy her yard and the company of her chickens. She let me know these feelings with no uncertainty and my heart was breaking for her over the dilemma and for Coq Au. With a torn mind, I continued to drag my feet over the issue.

Then a miracle happened. The miracle of life.

There comes a time in a young hen’s life when she gets ‘the urge’. Now that our hens were grown and the warm weather was fast approaching, little Mildred went ‘broody.’

When a hen goes ‘broody’ it means they are inclined to sit on their eggs for the purpose of hatching chicks.

What it REALLY means is that they will pluck out their own feathers near their chest to create a bald patch to make skin-to-egg contact for greater warmth for their developing babies, eat extra food to put on a little weight, get a glossy, far away stare, flatten themselves out over the clutch of eggs, growl and even peck at anyone that comes near them, and stay there for 21 days. They will turn the eggs three times a day. They will hardly get up to poop, eat, or drink. That is tough on a chicken. There is no knowing when a chicken will go broody except to say they won’t do it in cold conditions, realizing that baby chicks might not survive. There is no way to stop a hen from going broody if it is determined to do so (except through some cruel methods that don’t always work anyway) and there is no way to force a hen to go broody if they don’t want to. Some breeds are more inclined to go broody than others, some individual hens are more likely to go broody than others.

Some things that you should do if your hen goes broody and you want to encourage her: make sure she has food and water close by so that she can take nourishment without straying very far. You should move her to an isolated spot from the flock so that she will not be disturbed. The trouble with this is that with a young and inexperienced hen, of she is disturbed, she may lose interest and give up sitting. Sometimes, even if everything is perfect, she will give up after a few days anyway because it was just too damn hard. Mildred seemed determined.

We didn’t have an isolated place for her, so here is what we did and the mistakes we made along the way, one of these mistakes is what led to Coq Au ultimately being spared from his very near brush with execution.

We reached under her and felt two eggs, we immediately put two or three more under her. We left her alone in the nesting box for several days, making sure she did have food close by. We wanted to make sure she was going to ‘stay the course’ on her own and we had no suitable place to isolate her. That was mistake number one.

Chickens are social animals. You can spend days and weeks just observing the political structure that makes up to proverbial ‘pecking order’. What we never knew was the social nature of ‘motherhood’. It seems, that as soon as the ladies hear that one of their own have gone broody, they all stop by to offer words of encouragement and ‘help’. It goes sort of like this … when another hen drifts into the coop and sees that ‘thousand yard stare’ of the broody hen, she says “oh … are you doing that thing? Here, let me help you, since you’re doing that ‘thing’ anyway!” and she’ll climb in on TOP of the expectant mother and lay another egg. The mother will at some point scoop that egg under her along with the rest. The laying hen then feels like she is ‘participating’ in the miracle of birth and ‘helping’ the flock. In other words, the lazy bitch is dropping off her responsibilities with someone else who will do the work for her!

So, after a few days, poor Mildred was sitting on FOURTEEN eggs. With no way to tell for sure which were her original clutch or not, I could only remove a few of the eggs, the only ones I could be ‘sure’ were new and not already several days into a potential hatch. It was then that I decided to affix some plastic garden fencing around her area to help isolate her. Since her box was smack in the middle of the nesting boxes, it was particularly awkward and the whole while I was afraid I’d be making too much noise and disturbance and interrupt her concentration. To my horror, I discovered that in spite of my best efforts, and in spite of the fact that it did REDUCE the frequency of interlopers into her private space, some determined hens still managed to ignore the FIVE OTHER EMPTY nesting boxes and go through great length to crawl past the barrier with some difficulty to continue to ‘help’ poor overburdened Mildred.

So, I had to let it be, but as the days passed, it was easier to identify ‘new’ eggs under her. Unfortunately, with so many eggs under her, more mistakes happened. With so many eggs to turn, sometimes one or more would become broken. That was okay, because there were far too many. Also, some of the eggs might not be fertile. You know that old expression about counting your chickens? Well … yeah.

While this was going on, herself and I figured there would be more babies than our flock would absorb, so we decided to inform our little chicken network. We reached out to Tara who had a few chickens to let her know that if ever we had too many hens, we would gladly gift her with one or more if she wanted and if we had extra. We reached out to a neighbor with a few hens for the same reason, and we reached out to Dave, and old service buddy of mine who had a lot of land and a small flock way up in upstate NY, although ferrying hens six hours away seemed a difficult task. Also, we reached out to Bruce. Bruce is a tall, burly man who lives on a farm that is about 12 miles away. His family grown hay, straw, corn, and it has been in his family for generations, but they currently had no livestock. We discussed with him the prospect of getting chickens and if ever he wanted to start his own flock, we’d be happy to donate a few chicks and even a spare rooster if we were faced with the likely hood that one was born. We could only have ONE ROOSTER and we’d have to find a home for a spare (whichever one we felt was the ‘spare’ wink wink). So, with several potential sources for spare birds to have homes, we felt confident of a successful future for any chicks born … ones that might be staying, and ones that might have to go to good homes.

This next bit is really important. Don’t miss this bit … it is about how Coq Au Vin’s place in our home was assured.

A broody hen will only get off of the nest for about fifteen minutes at most. Take some food, stretch the legs, then back at it. If ever she spends too much time away from that nest, the eggs will become cold and the developing chicks will die. So, sometime after two weeks into sitting, I came home from work, went out to give treats to the flock, and Coq Au was giving me ‘the look’. He stood there still as a statue with malice in his eyes. Just standing there in the run, next to the nesting boxes. Glaring his hatred at me and all things human. I fed treats to the girls and glared right back at him. I steeled myself for the day’s inevitable onslaught … but it didn’t come. He clucked his usual angry clucks at me. Flapped his wings mightily, and glared. He didn’t move and inch toward me and when he’s in this state, he normally goes on the attack immediately. I was perplexed. “What the hell is wrong with YOU?” I testily demanded.

A realization struck me. I took a quick ‘beak’ count. Mildred was OUTSIDE IN THE RUN! She had slipped past the enclosure in the coop and couldn’t get back in to the eggs! Unlike what you’d expect from a nervous mother, she was happy as a clam to be out and having treats. Coq Au Vin, on the other hand, stood there stone still, KNOWING something was wrong and trying to do everything roosterly possible to alert me that life was at stake. He not only was already good at protecting his flock, but he was even trying desperately to protect the unborn!

I had no time to muse over his feelings at that moment, it was 5:30 or so, the sun was high, and temps in the coop were still hot, so I hoped against hope that we still had a chance. I scooped up Mildred in a hurry and gently deposited her on that nest. There was one cracked egg in there (something that had happened before a few times) so I snatched that egg out and hoped even some of the ones left had not gone cold!

I disposed of that egg. A cracked egg will not hatch, and I was horrified to discover that there was a developing chick (now passed on, of course) in that shell. That … out of everything else that had happened before or has happened since … was my most heartbreaking moment. To this day, I have never told my wife about what I saw in that discarded egg, and even now, nearly two years later, my heart still hurts over it.

Still no time, I called my wife and begged her to tell me what time she had last checked on Mildred. She told me four o’clock. That means that Mildred slipped the fence sometime AFTER four o’clock and was returned by 5:30. That window was still too long, but narrow enough that I help out hope that some of those babies had survived.

There were too many eggs to take care of. There were a couple of broken ones along the way. She slipped off of the nest for some undetermined amount of time. This was a disaster … to think she might have gone through three weeks of that for naught.

Four days later, it was Saturday. Herself was at work and I checked the nest. Mildred was off of it again, but standing right there. I looked carefully and one of the eggs was ‘pipped’! There was a live baby chick being born before my eyes! I took the above picture and sent it to my wife. It would be hours before the baby would emerge, so I left the situation alone.

The next day, my wife and I checked to find one healthy, happy, baby chick! The TV show Vikings, being popular at that time, we gave this new life the strong name Lagertha, one of the strongest female figures on the show!

We waited a few more days hoping more would hatch, but it was not to be. Two days later, Mildred emerged and proudly introduced baby Lagertha to the world. Unlike the first generation, Lagertha would be raised by a real chicken mommy with the sun on her face and grass under her feet. We were disappointed that there weren’t more hatched, but relieved that new life was possible for our little flock.

I quietly disposed of the unhatched eggs, without deep investigation into the contents.

I had given my wife the details of Coq Au Vin’s actions that day. I told her, and she agreed, that it didn’t matter how much of a douche bag he was determined to be, he was the best rooster for our flock that a person could hope to own. I don’t need him to be nice or gentle, I need him to be a good protector to those girls.