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 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.

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.

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.

Dark Days.

Dark Days.

The dark days of winter fell upon us. The cold and wet meant more time inside for herself and I and less yard time for the flock. They were able to get more sleep at night and egg production slowed just a little. Some hens shut down entirely in the worst of the cold, but our hard working girls kept right on laying, even if the rate was a little slower. When Yuletide rolled around I bought a ‘flock block’ to put in their coop. This is a massive hard packed seed treat thing, not unlike what others might put out for the wild birds to peck at in winter when foraging is scarce. This one was maybe 25lbs! This reason was more to stave off the boredom that comes from being ‘cooped up’ in bad weather (yeah, the expression actually comes from something). But, cold temps be damned, our chickens love being out in their run all day, every day. Down to temperatures in the teens they will still stand watch through the bitter hours desperate for some sun. The only days they elected to stay in the coop was on snow days (you can read my earlier post on the most recent snow day to gather their unchanging opinion on the matter).

 

All the while I was mindful of my task to spare my roosters life in spite of his best efforts to convince me that we should end it. These are the things I discovered about his behavior over that winter. He gets a ‘look’ about him when he’s spoiling for a fight. When the early dawn took, and I had to be ready for work before the sun was on high, I would go out to the coop, open the peep door, and let them into the run. Often, he would dash out and stand betwixt me and the girls and give me ‘the look’. I would never back down. It was in HIS interest that he had to learn the true pecking order of the household, and when he did take it in mind to charge, battle would be joined and he would end up the worse for it. I am ever grateful that my morning coffee was already strong about me so that I would be steeled for the morning task at hand. But this I also discovered: After he would retreat with as much dignity as he could muster, I would check the doings of the flock with as much time as I could before the daily trek to the office. I often found his attacks were because the flock had run short of feed. Sometimes because they ran short of water. He was alerting me that things were amiss and I needed to address the situation immediately. I was also learning to ‘chicken’ and discovered that it was only natural that with less foraging the yard, they were going through feed more quickly!

One day, they didn’t come out. I peered with bleary eyed attention into the peep door and noticed that not only was their feeder empty, they had knocked it over and it was blocking the exit. Still in my morning fog, I reached in through the peep door to right it once again and that son of a bitch bit me hard. Right on the meaty part of my hand between the thumb and the fingers. I drew back in pain, realized that he had not drawn blood, but it was to be a nasty bruise. I knew that once he tasted my blood, he would be itching for a taste of my internal organs, so I was grateful it was only a bruise. I went in through the large door amidst the now frantic girls and braved ‘the look’ he gave, refilled the feed and went to work.

To this day I’m not quite sure if he knew it was MY hand, or merely thought it was an intruder. Either way, I had come to realize that he would lay down his life willingly to defend that flock.

If I were to give an accurate, though anecdotal assessment of WHY he would choose to go on the attack on one morning over another I’d say the break down was approximately 50% something is wrong, no food, or something and 50% ‘you just piss me off in general and I’m coming for you.’

Turns out, a rooster has very complex emotions and he doesn’t seem to give a fig what my complex emotions are.

So after the first of the year … mind you, I was NOT giving up hope of a reconciliation … I called the local farm to discuss a replacement rooster. The woman that owned the farm (this is where we bought the chicks in the first place, so I had already had a few long discussions with her and found her to be a wonderful conversationalist) and I talked about a great many things. We talked about the lavender crossbreed rooster she had that she could part with, we talked about what to do about learning how to butcher a bird if the time came, we talked about the possibility of a zombie apocalypse … some folks are very strange indeed … and by that, I mean myself most of all. I gravitate to strange folks it seems. What struck me most of all was her confirmation that this was indeed all very common behavior for most roosters and that the temperament of any rooster was a crap shoot. She went on to describe her own ‘rooster-be-good’ stick that she carried with her whenever she attended to the doings of her own flock.

My mind was torn on the matter, but still tending toward sparing his life. I felt no great need to execute our first rooster if the result could easily be a rooster that was just as bad or worse. Besides that, I was getting the idea that he was committed to his job and at least half of the efforts he made in proving his wrath upon my body was in the sole interest of his girls.

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.

A Fateful Day.

A Fateful Day

I work an office job. Long hours, very busy, fairly stressful, and find each moment away from my desk doing physical things like fixing the forklift (I have no real idea how to fix a forklift!), moving product around, coordinating things with one department or another … but mostly at a desk glued to a phone and computer. Often with no time even to take a lunch, my wife understands that I really can’t take social calls. So when she does have occasion to call me at work, it is pretty damn important and I always take her call!

So it was on a day late in September. The weather was perfect and she was to spend the day in the yard harvesting what was left in the garden, preparing the ground for next season, and obsessing over our little flock.

The call came late in the morning and I could tell right away something was wrong. She collected herself and told me that Coq Au attacked her. We hand raised this baby. He takes food out of our hand with the most gentle care. I couldn’t believe it. I talked her down and told her she must’ve been mistaken. She tried to tell me how he was all a flurry of feathers and talons, but I just couldn’t see it.

Roosters have a reputation. They can be nasty. Some breeds worse that others and one of the deciding factors for us against Rhode Island Reds was their aggressive reputation. We had read plenty of stories on the fancy chicken blogs of roosters who were sweet as pie and even liked to perch on their owners’ laps. But we had also read the tales of sweet roosters gone bad as soon as they hit an age where their testosterone was in full swing. Guess which one we ended up with?

When I got home, before going in the house I stopped by the flock and had a close look. Everyone seemed normal, including Coq Au. They all gathered around and I presented some meal worms. While they were munching, and I had their attention a bit, I asked them what happened, but they hushed up and wouldn’t own up to a thing. I went to our front door, sighed deeply, and walked in. My poor wife was sitting their brooding. Her face dark, and I knew this had to be more than mere dramatics. She gave me the gory details. She was completely unhurt, but so unnerved by the situation that it shattered her idyllic vision of owning chickens and having livestock.

I’m a little more pragmatic in such areas, I like to think, and figured a rooster is a rooster and just needs to get out a little aggression once in a while and as soon as he learns who the boss is, there would be little trouble. She and I also talked over the minutia and I mused over factors like her floppy gardening hat … maybe he didn’t recognize her, or the hat was casting a shadow that caused him to fear there was a threat. I went over all of these things and as the days passed, she tried again and again to enjoy the flock.

But he kept it up. Not every day. Not every encounter. But randomly and with alarmingly increasing frequency. Then came the day he came after me.

I was out in the yard with the flock foraging. It wasn’t a total surprise, with the disturbing reports from my wife, I was keeping a bit of an eye out. But he looked at me. I spied him looking at me and I looked at him. We looked at each other and I could see the moment when he decided that the flock was his, and his alone. I saw the moment when he decided he could ‘take’ me. He reared just a bit. His cowl expanded in a showy display, and then IT WAS ON!

Quick as a wink it as feathers and talons and he was determined to do bodily harm to my person. I quickly recovered my wits and let fly with a booted kick. I missed. The bastard ducked. He came low. But try as he might, he just wasn’t able to penetrate the armor of my blue jeans. Another kick. I connected with him … a glancing blow to the chest. He was completely undaunted and lunged again. A few more feints, another swing and a miss on my part and then my kick landed squarely home. Right on his well-muscled breast bone. Drove him back a foot or so.

Now, it is very important to remember that I was not trying to hurt him. At no point in my life will I ever intentionally cause harm to an animal. I was placing my kicks as carefully as possible to land on his breast area … where he has the most muscle and where two fighting roosters would be connecting with each other. The force of my kicks was tempered, although solid, designed to be firm enough to send a message, but not the kind of force to punt him into next week.

The second thing to remember is that a determined rooster can ignore a well-placed kick that drives him back a foot or so and he will require a second, third, or possibly more until he feels he can not achieve the better of the battle.

That day, Coq Au required two well-placed kicks (and a few glancing blows) until he walked off. He did turn his head briefly and say to me “okay … I’ll LET you be in the same yard as me. FOR NOW!”

With that, my wife as completely vindicated and it became clear, even to my thick mind, that Coq Au Vin was determined to do mischief. Now, and likely for a time to come.

I knew this is what a rooster could become going into the whole affair. I was hoping against hope that he would turn out to be one of the ‘sweet’ ones, but I also knew a rooster is to be a rooster. Evolution made him who he is and it was now time to figure out what to do about it.