My Pet Rooster
Posted: Tuesday, October 25, 2011
by Jack H. Schick
I had a chicken salad sandwich for lunch. We had spicy, baked drumsticks for dinner the other night. When I stopped for lunch after duck hunting the other day, I had a salad with chicken chunks on it. When I hunt pheasants, I have no problem wringing their necks when they’re wounded. I hold onto them until they quit flapping and thrashing then stuff them in my game bag. So, I guess it doesn’t really make sense that I was upset for days when Brooster, my pet rooster died.
The mother of a woman my wife worked with gave her a surprise Easter present: two baby ducks and a baby chicken. Chicks are sure cute, but it seems the woman had some sense. They would not always be small, cute, trouble free and living in the little cardboard box, peeping away adorably. Since, she lived in an apartment in the city of Allentown, she figured her mother was trying to get even with her for something she did as a kid, or was losing her mind.
From conversations at work, the woman knew we’d had a couple of chickens before, so she offered the “pets” to my wife. I can imagine the exchange: “Aaaaw, they’re so cute!” would say my wife, honestly. “Do you want them?” the woman would respond with a smile. “No, I don’t think so,” my wife would say. “I guess I’ll just let them loose at the park,” the woman would say. “No! I’ll take them,” my wife would come to the rescue.
I didn’t approve of the acquisition, but was out voted by the kids. Besides, what else could we do with them now? I couldn’t think of anyone as gullible who would fall for the same trick as my wife. I’d have to sneak out at night while the kids were sleeping and dump them off at the park. Instead, I rigged up a terrarium for a temporary home, and refurbished the old chicken/dog house we had out back for when they grew up and the cuteness inevitably wore off—which it quickly did.
We lived next to a creek that was usually full of ducks because for a decade we’d been feeding them several hundred pounds of corn a month. Consequently when the two ducklings got big, they just joined the flock. There wasn’t another rooster this side of Stonebach’s farm two miles out side of town, so Brooster was top cock in the neighborhood.
We didn’t keep him penned. He roamed as he pleased. It caused a few problems. He liked to scratch up the next door neighbor’s well mulched garden, but she like him. She’d grown up on a farm and they developed a relationship. Every lunch time he’d go over to the back door and get a few crumbs. Most of the nearest neighbors were senior citizens and seldom even heard the crowing. With windows closed and air conditioning on all summer we had almost no complaints.
Brooster didn’t take any crap from our dogs. They didn’t really bother with him, but if they got too close, a flapping leap with kicking talons backed them off quick. The cats were down right afraid of him. He aggressively patrolled the yard, charging up to any visitors. I was concerned about a stray or loose dog, but the only time I saw one come in the yard, Brooster attack and she scurried.
We lived at the end of a street across from an elementary school. We had no sidewalk, but one ran along the other side of the cindered lane to a foot bridge. Brooster would walk up and down the sidewalk or scurry back and forth in the lane, greeting kids on their way to and from school. It was a thrill for the town raised tykes to see a chicken that wasn’t headless and plucked. Peer consensus did not allow anyone to hurt him. He would not let anyone get close enough to touch him. He did sometimes scare people though.
Once, I was lying on the couch watching TV. From my position I could not quite see over the picture window sill to the sidewalk across the street. A young girl about ten suddenly sprinted past. I could only see her from the waist up. I quickly sat up. Brooster was about five feet behind her at full run. For some reason he decided to chase her home. Another time I got a call from an older neighbor who lived a couple of blocks up the street. The woman said that she and her husband were walking down by the school and the rooster chased them. While trying to get away her husband fell and sprained his wrist. I was sympathetic and actually expected the borough police to show up, but I thought to myself: “A grown man being chased by a rooster?” I’ve wrung enough pheasant necks to believe it shouldn’t be much of a contest. Maybe he was embarrassed for his manhood because I didn’t hear another word about it.
Brooster loved to watch Star Trek: the Next Generation. Reruns were on every evening. We would set up the piano bench in front of the TV with appropriately placed newspaper. When the theme song came on, he would sing along (cluck…whatever you’d call it). He actually held the tune. He would settle down in a roosted position and watched the screen for the whole hour. He would stand up, stretch and sing along when the theme came again on at commercial breaks. When the show was over, he’d pace on the piano bench clucking until we let him back outside.
Winter was a little tough on us all. He couldn’t stay out in his coop for the bitterest weather. The kids wouldn’t permit it. Sometimes we’d put him in the cellar which only had an outside entrance. Sometimes he stayed upstairs in the utility room. Either way, he’d crow. Not necessarily at dawn, but whenever someone turned on a light to go to the bathroom. In the utility room at least we could yell at him to be quiet. Once I got mad and threw him out on a bitterly cold day. I was shocked to see him still outside when I got home. His comb and waddles were badly frozen. I was afraid he’d die. He recovered, with some lost tissue, but I still feel bad about that.
Every day when I got home from work, if I didn’t see him around I’d call “Chick, Chick” loudly and he’d come running from wherever he was, picking bugs or scratching up grubs. Usually, though he was waiting for me in the yard and would run over and greet me when I got out of the car. I’d pick him up and give him a hug. He’d cluck and jabber the as he followed me the whole way up the walk to the house.
One day, when I got home he was waiting as usual. I went in and came out about fifteen minutes later, sat down on the porch and called him. He didn’t come. My neighbor was in her yard. She said that she’d just seen him a few minutes before. She went one way, hunting and calling. I went the other. A few minutes later she came back from across the foot bridge carrying him. He was still warm, but dead. There were no wounds or any indication why he’d died. I dug a hole near where I’d buried the last pet cat.
I still eat chicken several times a week. I still hunt pheasants and wring their necks when need be. My conscience seldom bothers me about it. But, I’ll never forget my rooster Brooster. I’ll never have a pet quite like him again. I firmly believe that love is of the Spirit and is immortal. So when I shed this shell and join that Spirit, everything I’ve loved will be there too.
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Top-level comments on this article: (2 total)Great story, how unique. And what a great idea about love with someone or something--I 've never heard a better explanation about a very real, plausible possibility. I feel I have learned much from your sharing this. Thanks.Thanks for reading and commenting. I'm glad it affected you. It did me
Love this story... I had rabbits once as a child, and I became attached, then I found out we were raising them to eat...YUK, I never ate any, that's not how a child operates...we make friends with the animals we're taking care of.
Glad you had such a friend.
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