The Great Rooster Round-up
By Bruce H. Mero
Our
vegetable garden has always been grown organically. Since moving to the farm in
the late 70s, we’ve used animal manures and compost to further enrich our
already incredible soil, companion plantings to discourage pests and
applications of plant-based compounds such as Rotenone and Pyrethrum to keep
bugs from damaging our growing vegetables. We’ve poured beer into shallow pans
for the slugs to get drunk on and hand-picked Cabbage worms. We’ve encouraged beneficial
insects, provided shelters for toads and tolerated spiders and snakes. Anything
that ate aphids, cutworms and caterpillars was welcome in the veggie patch. For
a time, that included free-ranging our chickens and ducks among the rows to eat
the bugs and worms. Poultry is really very efficient keeping pests out of the
vegetables if one is tolerant of an occasional missing leaf on the lettuce and
the incessant dirt-scratching that chickens love to do. For us the benefits
outweighed the negatives. That is, until we went a bit overboard with the
chicken population. Then it became a problem. Here’s how the story unfolded:
Gretchen
ran across the farmyard, stopping occasionally and changing directions to avoid
the half- dozen cockfights underway between the chicken coop and the back
porch.
“Enough”,
she proclaimed after reaching the relative safety of the back porch, “We have
to do something about all of those roosters”.
Indeed,
I had reached a similar conclusion a couple of weeks ago, but I kept my opinion
to myself knowing she would soon come to see the futility of keeping so many
fighting birds. The Bantam roosters given her by our friend Jaime a couple of
months ago had once been considered pets. Reaching the conclusion that they now
had to go was a milestone.
Jamie
worked for a local veterinarian who was attempting to breed a docile,
non-aggressive Bantam rooster. These particular birds are notorious for their
fighting ability and often used where cockfighting is a spectator sport and
upon which large sums of money are wagered. Jamie’s boss was making progress,
or so he claimed, but those roosters that were hatched which did not fill the
bill as docile required early removal from the gene pool. Removal generally meant a call to a local
butcher, but Jamie felt sorry for the latest batch of culls and asked if we
might add a few new birds to our flock of chickens until she was able to take
them off our hands. A “few” turned out to be nearly three dozen birds; all but
a couple of them were roosters. They were fantastically beautiful birds; a riot
of colors with their long, red neck feathers accented against golden breast
feathers and long, arching tails of iridescent blue and brown. The several hens
that came with the flock had already hatched clutches of eggs and fuzzy baby
chickens scooted around the yard pecking at insects. They were striking birds,
but in spite of the good Doctor’s intentions, the cocks were wicked fighters.
Each had long spurs on the back of their legs and each had an ugly disposition.
Within seconds of their release into our chicken coop, cockfights broke out.
Our flock of domesticated Rhode Island Red hens all bellowed complaints and
rushed out of the coop. Dust and feathers flew everywhere. Roosters flew at
each other, spurs kicking. The water can fell over, then the grain feeder. The
birds screamed at one another. We evacuated.
It was hours before things settled down, and only after most of the
roosters had discovered the door to the chicken yard, left the coop and flown
over the fence.
The
Bantams now free-ranged the farm. Most kept close to the chicken coop where
they could pick-up a quick meal when grain was tossed in a few places for them
to eat. Some headed for the back forty where they foraged on whatever they
could find. Many found the tender shoots in the vegetable garden irresistible
and the new garden was quickly in tatters. The roosters paired-off to fight as
often as they could and squawked and kicked and disrupted the tranquility of
the farm continually. They were funny to watch, actually, though they were
deadly serious when they crouched, beak-to-beak with a rival. Neck feathers
would flair, muscles would tense and they would leap at each other, flailing
spurs ripping feathers from one another. A furious battle would ensue for a few
seconds, the birds would part slightly for a couple of seconds and the next
round would begin. Sometimes they would be several feet off the ground with
wings flapping, spurs kicking and feathers and dust flying; all the time
squawking and nearby chicken observers sounding their disapproval. This
scenario would repeat a half dozen times or more before one would turn and run
off, leaving the other the victor. Of course, the winner would crow about how
great he was and then calm would return to the yard until the next
confrontation started. Over and over this was repeated. From a distance it was
safe. Step into the field of battle, however and one took one’s chances. Our
Irish setter and both cats had been victimized by the roosters so many times
that they had learned the warning signs and stayed clear of the combatants.
Human forays into the yard to collect eggs or scatter feed were an adventure
and one usually carried a weapon for self-defense. We hung an old ski pole on
the back porch for just such a purpose, but shovels, pitch forks or lawn rakes
were sometimes substituted. Inevitably we would step between birds just as they
were squaring off, spitting epithets at one another and need defensive
maneuvers to get away without harm as they flew at each other.
One
afternoon I stepped into the fenced yard where the domesticated chickens were
kept to drop a handful of weeds I’d just pulled from the garden. Six feet into
the space, I realized that one of the particularly nasty Bantams was inside
looking for a fight. He stared at me and crouched. Recognizing the signs of
impending trouble, I stepped back towards the gate. I was without defense and
needed to escape. Keeping an eye on the rooster I took one more backward step
and reached for the gate. The rooster’s neck feathers flared. I heard a snap
and a giggle from behind me. My daughter, Mitra had locked me into the fenced
yard. The rooster leaped and hit me in the chest knocking me back into the
fence. Mitra laughed. The bird leaped at me again. This time I kicked at him
and connected with his chest and sent him tumbling backward. Mitra roared. She
was having great fun.
“Let
me out of here,” I scolded.
She
laughed. The rooster leaped at me again and again my sneaker-clad foot
connected with his chest and sent him tumbling back. Again he charged and I
kicked him back, all the time fumbling with the latch on the gate to escape
from the yard. He flew at me and I parried. Again and again the bird leaped in
my direction. With each encounter, Mitra laughed out loud. Finally I succeeded
opening the gate and I made my retreat. The Bantam charged the gate, spurs
flailing, but I was now beyond his reach. He charged the fence a couple more
times, then settled back and gave his victory crow. The domestic birds, who had
been cowering in the margins, emerged and congratulated the Bantam on his
accomplishments. Mitra was doubled over with laughter. Tears were running down
her cheeks. I started laughing, also. It was a comical situation. I outweighed
that bird by 170 pounds, but he had me against the ropes. He had no fear. I had
retreated as the vanquished.
Playfully
I grabbed Mitra and picked her off the ground. She screeched with delight as I
carried her, upside-down, toward the house. The Bantam rooster crowed as we
departed. Mitra wiggled out of my grasp and ran to the house to tell her mother
of the fun we’d just had.
So,
after two months of living with the continual cacophony in the farm yard,
Gretchen made a phone call to Jamie and set a date for her to pick-up her
birds. Later that morning, Jamie called back and she and Gretchen talked a
while. When she got off the phone she said that Jamie’s husband had vetoed the
idea of taking the chickens, but he was agreeable to butcher the whole lot and
split the bounty with us. A date was set. After that our attitudes towards the
birds changed. Sometimes we felt sorry for them, knowing their fate; sometimes
no sorrow, just relief that the madness was soon going to end and tranquility might
return to the farm.
Judgment
day arrived. The Benson van pulled into the yard at mid-morning, excited
daughters Donna and Rachel spilling from the rear door. They’d been told we
were going to catch chickens and they were ready for the chase. We adults
shared a cup of coffee and discussed the plan for the day. Dan and I would
dispatch the birds; Jamie and Gretchen would do the feather plucking and then
back to the men for eviscerating. We had a fire started and a huge pot of water
boiling to dip the birds in to loosen the feathers. Dan and I chose a stump in
the back yard as the execution block. The kids were turned loose to bring us
our first victims. Donna and Rachel each
caught a bird and raced them over to us. Dan and I each took a bird.
“Now
what happens,” asked Rachel? She was smiling ear to ear with pride for having
captured the first chicken.
I
looked at Dan. He confessed to me that he told each of the girls about catching
chickens, but had stopped the discussion at that point. He’d not told them any
more. What happened next, of course, was not something either of the girls was
expecting and it ended their chicken catching activities immediately. Both were
flabbergasted. One of them screamed, both cried and ran to their mother. Jamie
walked them away. Both were sobbing as they went into the house. She returned
in a half-hour without the girls. They’d had quite enough.
Mitra,
on the other hand was busy grabbing the roosters and bringing them to the
chopping block, sometimes two at a time. She had been under no allusions about
the day’s activity. She’d been harassed enough over the last couple of months
by the fighting of the birds and was looking forward to a return to tranquility
in the yard as much as we were. During the past few days, she’d been busy
finding possible rooster hiding places around the yard and kept us moving along
with her catches.
The
process took us a couple of hours. We’d dispatched, plucked and cleaned 22
birds by noon. All were cooling down in a tub of ice in the shade near the
house. There was, still, a half-dozen or so live roosters remaining, but they
were now wary enough to keep their distance from Mitra. She was unable to catch
any more of them. It was time for a break. Dan and I cleaned-up the yard while
the girls made sandwiches for lunch. Donna and Rachel had calmed down by then,
but refused lunch. They both wandered past the tub of ice, talking to each
other in quiet tones. The rest of us ate our sandwiches in the shade of the
Maple tree in the front yard. Both Mitra and her mother remarked on how quiet
things were in the back yard. Dan and I drank beers, several of them. A
conversation ensued and more beers were consumed, the ladies joining the men to
toast two-freezers full of chickens. The toast was punctuated by a defiant
rooster call from the roof of the chicken coop and our party was brought back
to the realization that the day’s task was not complete. There were more birds
to process. We’d need another method, however, to catch the remaining roosters.
I
brought my ancient .22 rifle and a box of shells outside to the back porch and
for the next hour Dan and I sat in lawn chairs with our feet on the rail, drank
beer and picked-off the remaining birds one by one as they appeared. I was the
better shooter, by far. Dan claimed he wasn’t used to the rifle and missed the
birds continually. I think he drank far too many beers. In any case, by the end
of the afternoon we’d managed to get six more roosters into the tub of ice and
two in a pot on the stove in the kitchen. We’d dine on fresh chicken for
dinner...or so we’d thought.
It
didn’t happen. We called out for pizza.
After
boiling for over two hours on the stove the chickens were not cooked. They were
still too tough to stick a fork into after another hour. We ate pizza and drank
beer until 10:00. After six hours of boiling we were able to taste the chicken
for the first time. It was like chewing on hot inner tubes. It smelled and
tasted like chicken, but it would take a lot more boiling to make it edible.
Our Irish Setter ate those two chickens that night.
It
took Gretchen, Mitra and I nearly two years to finish the 14 chickens we’d put
into the freezer from that endeavor. Stewing them for eight hours seemed to be
enough cooking to make them into food, though it took cooking two of them at a
time to make a meal for the three of us. The roosters were very small; very
small and very tough.
Thus
is the tale of the great rooster round-up. We ended-up with two surviving
Bantam roosters after that day. Both died of old age years later. Until then
they roamed the farm at will, including the vegetable garden where they were
content to scratch for bugs unless the other appeared. They would fight like
the dickens when they encountered each other. We put up with them. Getting rid
of them just wasn’t worth the effort.
