Time to Kill the Rooster
The day we killed the rooster, the forecast had predicted rain, but a canvas of quiet blue with puffy clouds greeted us instead.
My brother and his wife pulled into the driveway, their SUV packed with luggage, two kids, and a backseat stocked with snacks for the five-hour drive. Sleepy kids, still in their Paw Patrol and firetruck pajamas, were released from their car seats and onto the farm.
The hens squawked, the branches of the Black Walnut trees swayed, and the shy barn cat hid between the edge of the woods and the back of the barn. The kids took it all in with the confusion of being dropped somewhere entirely new, and the curiosity to try to make sense of it.
My sensitive and observant three-year-old niece, Ellie, pointed toward the coop.
“Chickens?”
“Let’s get changed before saying hi,” my brother reasoned.
“I’ve got your rainbow boots we can put on!” my sister-in law bargained.
Distracted Ellie sauntered inside. They managed to get her changed, then handed her a bowl of Cheerios with cut-up blueberries while they outfitted Matthew, my one-year-old nephew. It was a masterful negotiation.
I slipped into my scuffed Bogs chore boots and helped Ellie into her cheery, rainbow pair. My brother trailed behind us, holding Matthew’s hands as the little guy stomped and waddled excitedly through his new world. We purposefully walked toward the coop, leaving Drew and my sister-in-law behind to enjoy a fleeting moment of peace.
I tell them about our flock: thirty hens and one rooster.
The girls are a chatty bunch, gallivanting around the open yard, visiting their favorite spots - the compost pile, the barn (where they’re not supposed to be) and the garden (where they’re especially not supposed to be) - with a silly, scatterbrained energy.
And then there’s the rooster.
He is a regal showman, twice the size of the girls and strutting around the yard like a flamboyant miniature T-Rex. He protects the hens and keeps the flock balanced.
What I don’t say is that we’ve kept a closer eye on the rooster since he injured one of our girls, ripping the feathers from her back and leaving her limping. (Remember?) She recovered, but we knew his days were numbered. It was a chore we’d been putting off because neither Drew nor I were exactly eager to do it…
The hens were immediately interested in us when we reached the coop. I tell the kids that whenever the flock sees Uncle Drew and me outside, they all come over to say hi. The rooster always joins, but keeps his distance. He’s still on guard duty. The rest are very friendly, softly clucking a greeting and following us around like a trail of ducklings after their mother. It’s hard not to find them charming.
For a moment, the whole scene has the easy excitement of something everyone is happy to be part of. Ellie and I head into the coop, both of us anticipating what we might find in the nesting boxes. She emerges first, her face split into a toothy grin at the magic of finding fresh eggs.
Then I see the rooster notice Matthew.
My brother scoops Matthew up as the rooster moves toward them with a puffed chest and a warning flap of his wings. I steer Ellie around the flock, taking the longer route toward the garden, pointing to the colorful zinnia palette in an attempt at misdirection. My brother follows close behind us, trying to look unfazed about his sister’s rooster stalking him.
I know in my gut that Matthew is his target.
The rooster knows what a full-sized human looks like. But Matthew is small enough that he doesn't register as one. It’s almost as though the rooster sees this tiny human as a large chicken - and a threat to his dominance.
My brother and I look at each other. Neither of us say anything. I guide us back to the porch at an urgent pace disguised as something casual. The rooster releases a throaty, challenging crowing.
The hen was strike one.
My nephew was strike two.
Targeting a child was strike three.
It won’t be long before the rooster’s spurs cause some serious damage - to me, to Drew, to our dog, or worse, to a visiting child.
There wasn’t much left to deliberate. It was time to stop putting off the inevitable.
To be continued...
