The Funky Chicken

My best friend has a chicken problem, the balance of roosters to hens turned her barnyard to a scene of Sodom and Gomorra and not one of quaint crowing and scratching in the dirt. Over at my house, a series of dog attacks from last year had left me roosterless. My hens were getting by, laying delicious, but infertile eggs. The gift rooster was supposed to be a blessing to both of us, and as I stood looking at her chickens trying to decide, my feelings were honestly, a bit uneasy.

Her 11 year old son had donned a heavy pair of garden gloves, and was eagerly waiting for me to select a bird. His younger brother warned me which one NOT to pick, “His name is Battle !” he grinned. The boys also politely requested that I not choose their pet, the gentlest and largest of the roosters, Red. That left me with about four to choose from, but the birds were milling around so much… oh my!

It was easy to tell the difference between the roosters and the hens, the hens were the ones with no feathers on their backs. I know how they had come to lose their back feathers, but I was not quite sure how the roosters had managed to loose their tails. Apparently one of them had even less of a tail then the others because that was how I was supposed to identify “Battle” … well, thanks boys- I think those three inch spikes growing out of his legs give me enough of an identifier.

Around and around we went, chasing a stream of chickens around the shed. The chickens went every possible way except into the shed where we were trying to corral them. The Border collie sat by, shouting out telepathic dog hints to us on how he would do it, (if he was so inclined) He complimented us that he was really enjoying the show from his vantage point on top of the doghouse. Of course he did not want to show us up with his natural excellence in herding and superior canine intellect. It’s too bad none of us were animal psychics. Of course if one of us had been, we could have reassured the roosters that they were defiantly too tough to eat and there was no stew pot in their future.

I had set my sights on a barred black and white rooster, mainly because he was the only one who I could follow in all that milling around. The more I focused on him, the slipperier he became until he finally stuffed himself through the fencing and moved the chase to the outside of the fence. We worked that rooster back and forth through the fence, and I thought that we might grab him during that split second squeeze through but alas we were no match for him and he was able to rejoin the flock down by the shed.

Eventually someone on Team Human must have picked up on the psychic hints from the border collie because we were able to get a few roosters cornered in the shed. One of them was Battle , and from the younger brother’s hesitance to help me block the wide doorway, I assumed that my understanding of Battle ’s potential was incomplete. We gave him a wide berth and allowed him to exit under his own volition. Now the barred cock was almost a sure capture. We could do it! (The border collie was almost bursting with anticipation.) The older brother made a move and my rooster tried to make a break for it. I was squatted down in the doorway (wearing a dress I had selected before I knew it was the day of the gift rooster) I was trying to do my best Soccer goalie moves, my team was depending on me to prevent that rooster from reaching his goal. I lunged to the right with my hand out- and the rooster made a quick move back to my left and found himself firmly pinned under my falling backside. Yes, that’s right, I sat on him. I sure hoped he wasn’t hurt. I fished for his scaly legs to hold as I lifted my weight off his body. My joy over catching the rooster was short lived as the realization sank in. My rooster catching technique witnessed by these two farm boys would be a joke I would not live down in the near future.

I’ve had good luck releasing my poultry, (except for the ducks who did not know how to swim) I just let them loose and they stay. At first the rooster was not too keen on coming out of his cage, but I assured him that I would most likely never have to sit on him again. My hens had already retired to roost since it was a grey cloudy afternoon, so the rooster unaware of their presence, began to explore the yard. The hens must have caught sight of him from their perch high in the barn and they came rushing out to greet him in the driveway.

Well, that is an understatement, the reception that rooster received was one that few people, aside from the likes of Brad Pitt, will ever know in their lifetime. The hens seemed to swoon and faint at his feet, laying down flat on the ground with their wings spread out. The rooster was not quite sure what to make of it, never having seen a hen with feathers on her back. He stood there dazed, and then looked over his shoulder for Battle . Then he looked back at the hens, and checked over the other shoulder for Big Red. “Well, this is a rare opportunity indeed.” thought the barred cock. “I guess at this point I should refer to the Rooster Manual for co-ed Conduct.” The hens tried to lower themselves even further into the gravel at his feet, and after one last check for the hidden camera - he busts a move! He puts his right wing down like a matador’s cape and takes a high graceful step to the left, followed by his right foot dragging through the gravel. Then down comes the left wing and this fancy step is repeated to the other side. The hens sigh and close their eyes in anticipation. The rooster stretches himself up tall and begins to strut in a circle. A little mexican hat dance of sorts. One hen opens up one eye and whispers to the other, “Is this guy for real?”

And so, all my worries have been eased, this Rooster has settled in well at his new home, the hens follow him faithfully, he crows just enough to be quaint and they all scratch in the dirt together. I think I’ll name him Happy.