The Rooster

rooster

He was a barred Plymouth Rock, big for the breed, and the meanest, most vicious animal I have ever known.  Why we kept him around I could never figure out.  He lived to attack anything that moved in our yard.  Every time I went to feed the dogs and pigs and horses or muck out the stalls or clean the kennels I had to factor in time to fight with this chicken.  He was sly about it, too.  He wouldn't come at you direct.  He'd cross your path and move off to the side, then sidle down until he was behind you.  You'd hear him coming...the "tick-tick-tick" of his feet against the hard driveway dirt as he charged your back.  I'd turn around, and if he wasn't close enough to come at you he'd stop, let out a long "waaaaaaaak" and walk off to the side again.  He'd eye you the whole time, an eye that spat hate at every living creature that wasn't one of his hens.  I'd turn back around and start walking, only to hear his feet on the hard dirt again.  Spinning around this time he'd already be in the air, wings flapping and feet jutting out to jab his spurs into my legs.  I'd punt him as far as I could, but he'd land and come right back at me and we'd repeat this process...attack, punt, attack, punt...until he was exhausted and lying on the hard dirt panting, wings outstretched, the hate in his eye undiminished.  I swear to God he was cursing his body's frailty at being unable to keep up the futile attacks.

Like I said, I could never figure out why we didn't just make soup out of the damn bird.  I think it's because, in a weird way, we were kind of proud of him.  He was so tenacious!  I think his meanness and tenacity probably saved our hens on more than one occasion as well.  He probably would have died of old age in our barnyard if my aunt and uncle hadn't gone and had a kid.

The Rooster didn't become an issue right away after my cousin was born.  It took a while.  But once the little kid started walking around outside it was only a matter of time until The Rooster went after him.  The kid wasn't hurt; he was scooped up before The Rooster made his full-fledged, legs out spur attack on the poor little tyke.  But it sure scared the be-Jesus out of him, and that was enough for my aunt to demand that The Rooster become that night's dinner.

Of course, the duty to kill The Rooster fell on me.  Curiously, I found I didn't want to do it.  It was no small task to catch the damn bird...I had to punt him to exhaustion before I could safely grab his legs.  But once I had him in hand, hanging upside down as I held his legs, I grabbed a hatchet and had his neck down on the stump behind the tack room at the end of the barn. His eye was staring straight up at me with a pure, burning hatred that was more holy than a church hymn, and I realized I'd miss having the nasty bastard around.  He was indomitable.  I realized I admired him.

So I swung the hatchet into the wood next to his head and walked back around the barn where my uncle was and he could see The Rooster was still alive.  He looked at me with raised eyebrows and I said, "If you want him dead you do it."  I held The Rooster out for him.

"You pussy!" he said, and took the rooster from me and stalked off behind the barn and I waited a while and then I heard the "thunk" of the hatchet hitting the stump and I thought, "Well, that's the end."  And my uncle comes around from the back with The Rooster in hand, and he wouldn't look me in the eye, and he walked past me and I could see The Rooster's hate filled eye in his head, still attached to the neck, and my uncle said as he walked by "If your aunt wants this bird dead she can do it herself."

Well, my uncle walked into the kitchen with The Rooster in hand and I got busy cleaning a horse stall and I could hear them yelling.  Next thing I know my aunt is coming out of the kitchen with The Rooster in her left hand, my uncle right behind holding my cousin, and she's yelling "You two are the biggest wimps!"  And she stalks off  behind the tack room and my uncle and I are standing there looking at each other. After a couple of minutes my aunt comes back and she throws The Rooster on the ground and says, "Well, get rid of it, then.  Give him to somebody, do something with him, but I don't want him around!"  And with that she took my cousin from my uncle and stalked off inside.

Well, my uncle and me watched The Rooster preen his feathers, eyeing us with that eye that seemed to say "I'll get you for this!"  And we discussed particulars of what to do with The Rooster.  I told him that Bob and I were headed out to cut firewood the next day, and we could dump him in the woods where we were cutting.  Coyotes or foxes would make short work of him out there.  So we agreed that's what we'd do.

So the next morning I fought The Rooster, caught him after he was exhausted, and put him in a dog crate.  When Bob got there I loaded the crate into the back of his pick-up along with my saw and gear.  When I got in Bob asked, "What's in the crate?"

"The Rooster,"  I said.

"The Rooster?  Really?"  He was quiet for a bit, then asked, "What you going to do with him?"

"I'm gonna leave him out in the woods," I said. I explained what happened the day before.

He didn't say anything after that, and we drove out to where we were cutting wood and let The Rooster out of that dog crate.  When I opened the door on that crate he strutted out like he was king of the world, went off a bit, and started picking at the ground.  Bob and I started cutting wood.  While we were working we pretty much forgot about him until lunch time.  When we stopped to eat The Rooster stood off at some distance from us and watched.  It was almost like he was lonely or something, so I started throwing bits of food in his direction which he gobbled up as quick as they hit the ground.  Bob did the same.

"What do you think will happen to him out here?"

"Coyotes, most likely,"  I said.  "He'll probably put up a good fight."

Bob didn't say anything.

When we were ready to quit, The Rooster was standing under a big oak tree just watching us.  I got in the truck and looked back at him as we pulled away. "I kinda feel bad about this," I said.

"You think he'll make it through the night?"  Bob asked.

I just shrugged.   We didn't talk much on the way home.

The next day when we got out to where we were cutting, there was The Rooster.  He crowed as we pulled in.  I was actually happy to see him for once.

"Damn!"  Bob said.  "I didn't figure he'd make it through the night!"

"Me either," I said.  We set to work, but come lunch time we shared bits of food with him and even got an old cup and put water in it for him.  When we left we figured this night would be his last, but the next day I grabbed some scratch for him anyway and brought a little plastic bowl for water.  He was alive alright, and seemed to appreciate the scratch and water and seemed almost friendly for once.  I started bringing scratch every day.

One day we brought the deuce-and-a-half to load up with wood for a delivery, and as Bob and I were loading the wood from the pile onto the truck The Rooster set to clucking and pecking at one section of  the pile.  Bob and I ignored it for a while but The Rooster got louder and more violent towards the pile so we finally decided we'd see what was going on.  We walked over to where he was making all the racket, and I couldn't see anything.  Neither could Bob, so I bent down to move one of the logs when I saw it.  Right under the logs was a rattle snake!

I jumped back. "Damn, Bob!  There's a rattler under there!"

Bob looked where I was pointing.  "Damn, there sure is!"

We backed away and got a stick and managed to chase that rattler out of there, with The Rooster right alongside crowing and flapping his wings.  After the snake was a safe distance away, Bob said "You know that bird might of saved us getting snakebit."

I nodded.  I started to look upon The Rooster in an entirely different light.

Well, eventually it happened.  Bob and I showed up one morning and The Rooster was no where to be seen.  We scattered scratch, and hunted around calling out hoping we'd hear his crowing, but nothing.  During lunch we walked a wide circle looking for feathers or blood or anything that might indicate how he met his demise, but we didn't find a thing.  We figured it was a coyote and he'd carried him off.  And that should have been the end of the tale, except...

About two weeks later Bob and I were delivering wood to Mr. Ramirez, the owner of the ranch who allowed us to cut in return for keeping his wood shed full.  After we unloaded the wood we were standing around shooting the breeze with Mr. Ramirez when I saw a big barred Plymouth Rock rooster over by the corral mixed in to Mr. Ramirez’s flock.  I nudged Bob with my elbow and motioned with my head, and Bob's eyes just about popped out of his head.  As far as we knew, Mr. Ramirez had Leghorns and Rhode Island Reds, but we'd never seen a barred Plymouth Rock at his place.

"Mr. Ramirez, you mind me asking where you got that big barred Plymouth Rock rooster?" I asked.

Mr. Ramirez looked over at his flock.  "Oh, him?  Why, he showed up about two weeks ago.  I got no idea where he came from.  He just made himself at home.  Meanest bird I ever did see, but I kind of like him.  He's got personality."

Bob and me didn't say anything more about it.  We said our goodbyes, got in the truck, and after we hit the Cienega Road Bob finally said, "Do you think it really is...?"

"Who else could it be?  We weren't more than a couple of miles from his place as the crow flies. And it’s not like chickens grow on trees.”

"Well if it is him, I'll be dipped."

We started laughing, and laughed all the way home.

Yup, he was the meanest, most vicious animal I ever knew.  Meaner than any coyote, anyway.

4-24-2024