A Tale of Two Roosters

It all started innocently enough.  The feed store told me there was no guarantee that it would be a hen, but it was so adorable with its feathered feet, I took my chances.  When it started crowing, I was sure it was just a fluke - don't young birds go through a period of 6th-grade style identity searching too?  I needed Mr. Reality Check to tell me very firmly, "No, No They Don't."  After a few weeks of intermittent gargling (I couldn't really identify it as crowing yet, because the poor thing sounded like it wasn't sure how to turn a cluck into a tune), I finally gave in.  Yes, this was a boy.  Ironically we had named him Oddball long before.
He was not only a boy, but a boy of a breed very hard for this novice to identify.  He was petite, which I learned is properly called bantam.  He was ornate, with beautiful orange and green plumage with white spots like a cheetah.  He was the sweetest of our flock, and would gladly sit watching TV and purring in your lap.  But that crow, well, it went from an uncomfortable sounding wretch to an outright screech.  And it went from once or twice a day to an hourly summons.
Despite all his manly efforts, he failed miserably in the hen department.  Being the only bantam in the flock, he was half the size of all available ladies.  He tried wooing them by dragging an extended wing of bright feathers in front of them.  They turned away.  He tried puffing his chest.  They turned away.  He crowed his little head off.  They looked annoyed and turned away.  When he finally decided he had been a gentleman for long enough and it was time to get busy, he leapt up to reach one of the hens and bounced right off.  It was a pitiful sight, and out of sheer compassion, I listed him on craigslist.
By that time, all the signals were pointing toward the Hens Only turnoff.  The crowing was just too much - if we kept him in the backyard coop, the rear neighbors hollered.  If we kept him in a parrot cage in the garage, the front neighbors asked us what kind of strange animal we were keeping.  So I very happily passed little Oddball off to a wonderful man who was hoping to provide him with a home full of love, both the human and chicken kind.

Then came Napoleon.  We started our relationship with Napoleon in similar fashion, although this time we were told that he was 99% sure to be a hen.  Wrongo.  Where Oddball was sweet and sincere, Napoleon was all muscle and machoism.  First, he was huge, nearly double the size of the hens.  Second, he was as randy as they come and chased ruthlessly after the hens, pricking their combs and submitting them to tortuous displays of dominance.  Finally, and this was the most aggravating, he was horribly untamable.  I pride myself on being able to connect well with animals, but this fellow was the one I could not reach.  When it was time to return to the coop, he would race wildly through the yard.  One morning, when I reached in to gather eggs, he hopped right over my head and out.  I was on my way to work with heels and slacks, and damned if I was going to sprain my ankle chasing after his naughty tail feathers.
Then came the jar incident.  As we were eating breakfast one morning, my husband, Keith, looked out and choked on his coffee.  "What is that bird doing?!?"I turned to see the rooster stooped over a discarded mason jar, gyrating frantically.  "Oh, he's practicing," I said.  Then we watched in horror as he dismounted, puffed up his feathers, and strutted off.  I almost felt like offering him a cigarette, so proud he was of this conquest.  After that, while the jar was a frequent companion, I caught him wooing the hammock stand, large rocks, and planting pots.
One morning, I finally decided that I must tame this creature and set out with a tub full of raisins.  The hens recognized their favorite treats right away and came winging over.  As he noticed their interest, he slowly crept forward.  We silently cheered when he grabbed a raisin out of my daughter's hand, then we gasped in horror as he launched at her, talons first.  Once I had rescued my daughter from this sudden beastly aggressiveness, I summoned my husband.  "Bring a knife, we are getting rid of that rooster!"  The next 30 minutes were spent slipping all over the wet grass in my slippers, rake in hand, while Keith shadowed me with a cleaver, both of us debating the pros and cons of butchering the bird or just tossing him in the trash.  The bird evaded every attempt.  Finally I was able to trap him in some bird netting and, in a very timely transaction, passed him off to some day laborers who were working across the street.  I felt relieved, like I had stamped out a wily cockroach.  Napoleon has not been missed.

So, this summer, I have promised my girls that we will raise some new chicks from eggs.  The mystery and preciousness of baby chicks hatching is something we all want to experience.  But something tells me I may regret it...