The Cock of the Walk. A saying which apparently originated in the mid-1800s because of the average rooster's proud walk around the farm, watching over his girls and babies. A rooster is supposed to be a protector, you see. That's his main job. In a large flock, roosters establish a 'pecking' order (yeah, I'm sure chickens are where that phrase came from, too) and one rooster is in charge with perhaps several junior roosters in inferior positions. But they are all supposed to take care of the ladies. Okay, well, generally only the alpha rooster gets to, er, TAKE CARE of the ladies (wink, wink, nudge, nudge), but they are all supposed to watch over the flock. I'm digressing. It's late and I'm good at digressing.
I've blogged about it before; I keep chickens. Lots of other animals, too, for that matter but I enjoy my chickens. Useful and amusing creatures. I came to the decision Friday that I needed to let this flock go live with someone else; the workload is just too much with me planning to go to school. I very sadly reached the same conclusion about my parrots and placed them with friends on Friday (where they'll be happy but right now I'm miserable and the silence is deafening). At any rate, my chicken flock includes five hens that I bought as adults and six (three hens, three roosters) that I raised from babies. The six I raised from babies are about eight months old, all friendly and a few really like to be held.
Buddy was one of those chickens at one time. He was really outgoing and affectionate and the only one to earn himself a name, because he was always underfoot and I kept telling him 'watch out, Buddy' as I'd trip over him. A few months ago, he hit a growth spurt and reached maturity, became the Cock of the Walk; he decided he was awesome and mom...er, I wasn't worthy of petting or holding him any more. He never developed any aggressiveness like some roosters do, and if I did pick him up he didn't fuss, he just didn't like it anymore. I got the feeling he didn't think all this affection was manly but I do know that having five mature girls to keep, um, occupied was probably pretty exhausting. I don't have any pictures, but he was a big, beautiful multi-colored boy; just a heinz 57 mix known as an 'easter egger' since he came from hens that lay colored eggs.
This morning when I got home from work, he was gone. And the smallest of the hens was gone. See, the chickens here have the small front and side yard because the dogs get the big back yard. But the dogs also get the come and go of the house when I'm not home. For some reason, out of the blue, one of the dogs decided to pop out one of the window panes (old house) and pop out the screen on the window in the front yard.
When I saw what had happened, I was sure I would have no chickens left at all. They slowly came out of hiding as I called them and put food out, after I blocked the window up. They settled down as I talked to them but there was a tense, spooked feel in the flock. None of them seemed to look for the littlest hen, but they definitely looked for the strong leadership they were used to getting from Buddy. I haven't found the littlest hen, and I sort of assume I'm not going to find her.
Within two hours, the flock had gone on about it's business as if neither Buddy nor the little one had ever been part of the flock. Which is very strange. They remember me, they remember where the feed is and what time of day they eat. They couldn't possibly forget the rooster they listened to so closely for so many months in just a few hours. I've reached the conclusion, perhaps sentimentally, that the flock accepted the death as a normal, expected part of life and moved on, that fast. It hasn't been that many months since I lost two hens to a hawk before I made some coop changes and their reaction at the time was very similar. People think chickens are stupid; I'm just beginning to realize how resilient they are. Like ants-knock over their hill and they just start over from the beginning again.
The smallest of the three roosters (who had always been the middle man and remains very cuddly with me) had actually gotten out of the fence somehow and away from the danger. He abandoned the ladies and earned himself a name in doing so: Noel (Coward). It doesn't really matter now, of course, since it's definitely in the chickens' best interest to go live somewhere else at this point. But Buddy... well, Buddy was a rooster of a different color altogether. And here's where the curse of the writer's vivid imagination comes into play.
All Buddy's girls and the most junior rooster were very, VERY well hidden when I got home. The dogs were all inside the house (the window is so low to the ground, even the pug can jump out and in from that height), things were very quiet. I have the strangest little John Wayne/knight in shining armor picture of what happened. See, I found Buddy in the house, almost all the way through the house. I've got a big, offending dog with a few little well-deserved wounds on her face. And while I can find clumps of feathers that belonged to the littlest hen, I can't find her. I can't get the picture out of my head that Buddy got the rest of his flock to safety, put his junior in charge and went into the house to get her a' la Bruce Willis.
Intellectually, I know that's not possible. Intellectually, I know that he got between the girls and the dog the way he should have and died because I wasn't there to stop the dog from taking a fantastically flapping new play toy back into the house. But it's a very romantic and noble death my way, isn't it? I still feel craptastically guilty, of course. They may just be chickens to most people, even to the people I know that keep chickens themselves, but they meant a lot to me. Buddy was my friend. Even though I'd decided I couldn't keep them anymore (and will move the remaining flock in the morning I suppose), I wanted to picture them as fat, happy chickens for years to come. And now I can't.
Rest well, Buddy. I'm sorry this happened to you but you did a good job with your ladies and I'm proud of you for that. I'll miss you.
Toodles,
Sarah