The Rooster Crows No More

Now before I ruffle any feathers out there, let me assure you, I am a fan of treating animals humanely, and this particular killing was carried out with thought, care, and thoroughness. I've been trained by one of the best poultry specialists whose credentials include a college degree from the great educational institution, Texas A&M. And I've had more hours of experience in ushering Cornish Rock broilers from one side of life to the other than I care to ponder.

But this blog deserves some background information before the reader can fully appreciate the fact that this writer killed her rooster and is quite pleased with herself for doing so.

My husband of 20 years and I don't have a whole lot in common. Oh, we cherish plenty of the same things that keep two people desiring each other's company, but for the most part, our interests line up like two positive ends of a magnet. We don't really like the same music, books, or movies. The toys he likes to play with on the weekends include trombones, guitars, recording equipment, computers, or anything else with a black cord. Mine include a shovel, tiller, weed eater, or a road bike. I would like my bedroom to look like it was featured in Pottery Barn. He would like our bedroom to look like it was featured in the Guitar Center catalogue. He prefers to "think" and I prefer to "feel". Don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining. One of the nice things about being married is learning to appreciate your spouse's desires. This is where my chickens come in.


I can't imagine my husband ever choosing to spend a couple of weekends building a chicken coop, putting up a fence and gate, spending a few more weekends relocating the fence and gate, only for the purpose of buying himself some chickens so that he can enjoy the daily chores of feeding and watering them, keeping them safe from the suburban predators of neighborhood dogs and opossums, rounding them up from the neighbor's yard, and finally gathering their eggs. But I can imagine him doing that for me. You see, he loves that I love chickens. (And I love that he loves that I love chickens!) And this is where the rooster comes in.

Early last Spring, my husband, Don, rounded up some spare lumber, hammers, nails, screws, and our two youngest sons, Holden and Nate. They proceeded to spend their spring break building a chicken coop for the not-yet-hatched chickens I had planned to acquire at the end of that week. After spending four winters overseeing Holden and Nate's very successful 4-H projects of raising, showing, then processing Cornish Rock Broilers, my interests had now included the much smaller, but just as nutritious chicken product, the egg. I had ushered more than 150 broilers through my garage, to the backyard, to the Livestock Show, and finally to my freezer. I was now ready to settle in with a dozen or so pullets, have them hang around a few years, and enjoy their eggs. After just a few days, the labor of love was finished. I added my own personal touches of white and green paint, and I was ready for my new hobby of backyard chicken farming to begin.

The chicks were newly hatched and ready to be purchased at our local farming supply store. This was my first time to shop for such a supply and I relied heavily on the store clerk's advise and directions. I had done enough homework to know that I wanted Rhode Island Reds and Leghorns. My plan was to purchase 12 chickens...6 Reds and 6 Leghorns. But I was not prepared for the vast amount of choices before me. There were little Bantam chicks that ranged in colors of gold, blue, and green. They were the most tempting to include in my basket, but I knew enough to know that the small stature of a Bantam would yield a small egg. Another intriguing breed, the Americanas, caught my eye. They were the most unusual chick I had ever seen. Their fuzzy bodies were covered in spots, splotches, and stripes of all colors. I learned the color of their eggs ranged from blue to green to olive. I was assured of their ability to lay well in the heat of the south Texas climate, and they were quickly moved to the top of my wish list.

I left the supply store with 5 Americanas, 4 Rhode Island Reds, 3 Leghorns, and one special golden chick for Nate that was to mature to a lovely yellow hen that laid rich brown eggs. All chicks had been sexed beforehand, and I was informed that all of my chicks were in fact females.

Four months into our backyard farming project, we began to suspect otherwise. There was one Rhode Island Red that seemed to be more social than all the others. She would walk and sometimes run right up to me when I showed up to pay attention to them. Nate noted early that the bright red waddles and comb seemed brighter and larger than the rest. "He's a rooster, mom. You got a boy." I tried to deny it, knowing full well, that he or she might be prettier than the other chickens, but eventually it was going to be trouble. I didn't mind so much that a few weeks later he started to screech. My son, Garrett, was home from college now. One morning he woke to what he described as "Seinfeild screaming in our backyard!"

We had a rooster. And his crowing was amusing at first. Like a teenage boy desperately trying to find the voice that will carry him through adulthood, the rooster fished and fished around with all of his sounds until he found the one he seemed to like the best. I spoke with all the neighbors to make sure I wasn't disturbing the peace. They all assured me that they thought it was amusing too. But a funny thing happened. He got very, very good at it.

In addition to his crowing, his good natured social skills evolved into a personality I could live without. He treated me as if I had come to rob him of everything good to a chicken, despite the fact that his very lunch was carried in my hands. I knew the time would come for me to exercise my right of planting my foot square in his chest to prevent the strong and sharp talons on his feet from leaving their mark on my legs. Unfortunately that day came soon, and more than once. I began to feel like I was taking my life into my hands every time I attempted to feed or care for my chickens. His days were numbered.

I don't particularly care for killing chickens. And I really didn't want to have to kill this one. I called all the friends I could think of who lived in the country who might want to add a rooster to their homesteads. I even called a few of my nutrition enthusiasts who I knew would value the meat of a homegrown, organic animal. But no takers. And time was ticking. One morning I woke at 5:00 a.m. to the now flawless cry of the male chicken happily situated near the green and white coop. His crowing had flushed all sleep from my eyes and chased rest into the next evening. I was wide awake, and a little cranky. From 5 a.m. until 7 a.m, the rooster crowed. He crowed and crowed and crowed. Nearly a hundred crows filled the morning air, each twisting at the knot in my stomach tighter and tighter. When I finally rolled from my bed, I half expected my neighbors to be standing on my porch with pitchforks. It was decided. The rooster had to go that day.

After a few frantic calls to hopeful rooster takers, I decided I had to do the job myself. Like I mentioned earlier, I have some experience in this area. But this was different. This animal wanted to hurt me. An ongoing power struggle between two living beings was about to end, and I knew the outcome. And frankly, I was afraid. Now, a whole blog entry or two on fear will probably erupt someday out of me as this has been a common theme lately for this writer. But for now it's enough to know that I was just flat out afraid of this rooster. He could and had tried to hurt me!

Thankfully I have Edie. Edie is my partner in crime when it comes to raising chickens. Actually she is more like a mentor. Her chickens are 4 weeks older than mine. Whenever I have had a question or concern, she has been the one to turn to. Now I needed her. She simply suggested I wait until he was roosting, pick him up, then do my thing. I would have never figured that out on my own.

So the countdown began. Evening was here before I knew it. The time had come. After gathering some leather work gloves and setting up some light in the backyard, I went and stood in the coop. Was it true that because the rooster was now roosting, he would simply allow me to pick him up? He wasn't asleep. No he was fully awake and aware of me there. I was afraid. That rooster had tried to hurt me! What would stop him from that now? I stood there for a very long time, thinking over and over in my head how I would scoop him up by the feet. I just had to do it, but the motion that my brain was instructing my hands to do just didn't come. Finally, like a Nike commercial I just did it. I reached my hand underneath him and with one fluid movement had both of his legs in one hand, and cradled his neck gently in the other.

It was over quickly and peacefully and I'm not ashamed to say that I felt quite proud of myself for taking care of business on my own. Immediately there was a calm throughout the coop and the chickens' yard. The evening was quiet touched only by the gentle clucks of the settling hens.

Life continued on that night. The ongoing struggles that seem to always be lingering didn't simply go away. But one part of myself had overcome an obstacle...had done something difficult, and I possessed a little more peace.

I fully enjoy my chickens now. My family and I move among them often to care for them, to enjoy them, and to gather the multi colored eggs. There is much joy in having a yard full of peaceful and content chickens. Peaceful and content neighbors is pretty nice too.