The story I’m about to tell may make you think differently about me. I feel differently about myself.
It started this past spring. To fill out my coop I ordered six female chicks from My Pet Chicken—two Appenzeller Spitzhaubens and four Polish chicks.
If you’ve never ordered chicks before, you may be surprised to learn that you can order a wide variety of chick breeds online and have them delivered right to your local post office for pickup. Aside from breed and quantity, you have two options in ordering. You can order straight run chicks, which means you take your chances with sex and will probably get a mix of male and female chicks. You can also pay a little bit extra and order sexed chicks, so that you get females.
Anyway, I digress, but this is important background, as you’ll see.
The chicks arrived and thrived. It wasn’t long, however, before I began to suspect that one of the chicks was never going to grow up to be an egg-laying hen. That was an unplanned rooster.
Roosterly behavior begins quite early. Male chicks no bigger than a grapefruit will begin challenging other chicks with shoves and chest thumps. By the time they reach the size of a small cabbage, they are trumpeting their magnificence to the world, beginning with hoarse, strangled sounding vocalizations. Their general attitude of arrogance and entitlement grows until they begin trying to figure out the whole barnyard sex thing.
I generally wait to see how chickens look and act before naming them because I think the name should describe the chicken. So, for example, my pretty, round white Wyandotte is named Pearl. The creamy, caramel and chocolate Polish hen is named Twix. (You know, the candy bar?) The two Appenzeller Spitzhaubens seem to be tethered together as they cruise around the yard. They are Thelma and Louise.
And the rooster? Well, I named him Little Man because he reminds me of some diminutive men I have known who over-compensate for what they lack in stature with outsized attitudes.
When it comes to roosters, I like to think I have an open mind. I’ll give a rooster a chance to prove himself and pull his weight around the coop. My husband, on the other hand, has decided that all roosters are little sadists just waiting to rape, pillage and eventually come after me with their spurs when I am not looking. He began talking about the final solution.
“Give it some time,” I told him. T. Boone Chickens and Johnny Cash were were roosters and two of the finest chickens I have ever met—not overly rough with the hens and standing tall and alert to the sky while the hens were head-down pecking and scratching on walkabout.
On the other hand, Ricky Ricardo was a particularly wicked rooster. Good riddance to that bad boy.
What is it about nasty roosters that they tend to pick on one hen, in particular? Ricky Ricardo had it out for Tina Turner and Little Man hated Dorothy with a passion.
Poor Dorothy could never rest and could hardly eat. Little Man was always chasing her, mounting her, pecking at her and generally making her life miserable. She had lost a considerable number of feathers from his attacks. She had become nervous and twitchy.
I felt so sad for Dorothy. She is not a particularly pretty hen. She has a kind of undistinguished brown and white coat and the kind of facial feathers that resemble a fake Halloween beard. But Dorothy has spunk, I tell you. She is always the first hen to see when I am walking toward the coop with leftover pizza in my hands. Dorothy lives for pizza. She is also the hen who would most like to see the world. Chickens never stray far from their coop when on walkabout, but Dorothy always walks up the hilly driveway as far as she dares to go. I often imagine she is thinking, “I wonder what’s over that mountain. I will go there someday and see for myself!”
Sadly, I eventually came around to Harry’s way of thinking. Little Man had no place in our coop.
Now, getting rid of a rooster is a problem. You can’t hope they’ll run away from home because they never leave the yard. And you can’t give away a rooster. I have seen many ads on Craig’s List for free roosters and no one seems to be taking those ads down. People will go to some lengths to re-home a rooster. I once saw a huge roadside sign that said “FREE ROOSTER!” (Aside: I shared the photo on Twitter and one quick-witted follower fired back, “Who is Rooster and why is he incarcerated?”)
I decided to consult with my very experienced and skilled chicken-keeping neighbor V. V is a no nonsense person. She is not overly sentimental about what needs to be done with bad roosters and has become skilled at the task. If I needed to get rid of Little Man, I could do it myself or she would help. She described to me the method she researched and found most effective—a broom handle over the back of the neck and a quick snatch of the head backward.
I did what I normally do in these types of uncomfortable situations. I procrastinated. I kept thinking that the situation would resolve itself. Maybe one of the people I had asked would miraculously decide to take Little Man into their coop. Maybe Little Man would get religion and become a kinder, gentler Little Man. Maybe the Circle of Life would claim him early through disease, injury or stalking predator.
Hope did not prove to be an effective strategy. Day after day Little Man continued to torment Dorothy.
Finally, one afternoon Little Man pushed Dorothy—and me—just a little too far. I decided that was his final day.
I took the first step. I went into the house and had a glass of wine. Liquid courage.
I took some deep breaths. I put on my Little Man killing gloves and marched out into the yard with my broom. I could almost hear doomsday music playing in my head. I cornered that little tyrant in the coop. He was vocalizing and fighting like, well, I was trying to kill him.
I wasted no time. I took mean Little Man outside. “Okay, you. I’ve had enough of you!” I flattened nasty Little Man on the ground. “You do NOT, repeat do NOT mess with my hens.” (I was really working up a head of steam now.) I put the broom handle over horrid Little Man’s head. “This will teach you a lesson!” I yanked his despicable Little Man head back with a forceful jerk. He went completely limp.
“That’s it,” I thought looking down at my gloved hands. “I have killed with my own hands. Premeditated.”
I put down the broom, with Little Man at my feet. I stood up to meditate on what my fury had wrought…and Little Man jumped up and raced into the woods! He wasn’t dead!
Now I not only had a mean rooster, I had a mad mean rooster.
Time to call in the Special Forces. I called my neighbor V. Very calmly she offered to help.
“But I don’t believe in wasting perfectly good chickens. I can bring him home for dinner.”
She didn’t mean as a guest.
She was here within five minutes. I explained the ridiculous results of how I had tried to do the deed.
“That sounds like the first time I butchered a turkey in my basement.”
(Note to self: Do not mess with V.)
By this time Little Man had made it back to his torture Dorothy location.
V headed toward the coop. I noticed she wasn’t wearing gloves, so I offered mine. She took them, but I got the feeling that she was humoring me.
In no time flat V had snatched up that rooster, held him by his feet, slapped him on the ground, put the broom over his neck and sent him to rooster heaven (or hell). The end.
To reinforce her point about waste, I noticed that V had brought her own garbage bag to put Little Man in. Really, she could have just carried him home by his feet. But I suppose the spectacle of her walking down the road swinging a dead rooster by the feet was too much even for V.
So there it is. The story of how I tried to kill Little Man and failed—and then called in a trained professional for the job.
It’s not how I saw myself behaving when I began keeping pet chickens several years ago. I am still sentimental about them. I give them special treats to keep them happy and extra special treats on holidays. I give them names and mourn when a good hen passes. We bury hens that get sick and die. I have been known to cry over a chicken.
But now I know when to say “enough is enough.” I know when to protect the good chickens from a bad chicken. And now I know how to do it.
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Oh Robin. You are a gifted writer. And a good chicken mom. And a better woman than I am. I simply could not do it. I’ll bet Dorothy’s blood pressure went down and everyone is glad the drama is over. Least of all, you. *hugs*
Most true chicken story I’ve ever read. Growing up, I was the kid that had to hold the chicken on the stump while my mother chopped its head off. There is no romance in chickens for me. But now that the domestic voilence is behind her, I hope poor Dorothy has a better life.
Such an engaging tale. When I was a child, I had many encounters with a rooster named Bigshot. He would chase me around grandmother’s yard pecking all the way. At the time, his pecking tool was level with my….well let’s just say there might be scars. So, Bigshot got whacked with an ax and I do remember that headless rooster running after me in his moment of final glory. Ugh! I could use the broom. I know I could. Call me if V is not available.
totally enjoyed your narrative–even laughed out loud
several times. I’ve never had chickens (always wanted them) but surely could not have done the chopping part so it’s good I never owned any. It was a joy reading this.
The tears of laughter are running down my cheeks. Bravo for this fabulous blog.
Oh sweet baby Jesus, that was the funniest thing I’ve read in forever. We have a roo, Sherlock Holmes, that I have been threatening with the same fate. Too bad I don’t have V living next door!
I am new to your blog and I am so happy I found you! This story has been a great one to start the day. 🙂
Robin, cannot visualize the broom killing bird process. How does that work or is that technique for chicken lore folks only? 😉
I was the first generation to grow up in town. I spent a lot of time on my relatives’ farms growing up. Aunt Corrine was a neck snapper when it came to chicken dinner, Aunt Ida Mae was a hatchet woman. My brother and I were at Aunt Ida Mae’s when we were kids and watched her put the chicken on the stump and do the deed. And the chicken, now headless, took off running. ran into the fence, and came back across the yard before finally expiring. My brother wouldn’t eat chicken for several years after that. And the smell of chicken feathers after it had been dipped in boiling water to pluck it didn’t do much for my appetite either. I’m glad now to have been exposed to this, and other realities of farm life and the food chain. There’s not much room for sentiment in the process of making a living on a smaller farm. The notable exception was that Uncle Herbert kept Bell, his old plow horse, in comfortable retirement after he bought a tractor.