Essay by Patty Lataille
Small-town life – August 2004 – Colorado Central Magazine
MARAUDING ROOSTERS at large. Laying hens. Cock fights at 5 a.m. Chicken sex. Uniformed police officers ready to whack my roosters. I never dreamed that the intricate details of chickenhood would be the source of such controversy in my lifetime.
In the beginning, there were two chickens named Lassie (she fetches) and Little Grit. Both laying hens, they are relatively tame with humans and had been saved from the proverbial pot. These were the first (live) chickens that this city girl from Long Island, N.Y., had ever associated with. I was fascinated by their movements and mannerisms, along with their distinct personalities. When they weren’t in a menopausal mood, I’d find two large brown eggs with healthy vivid yellow/orange yolks – sometimes still warm in the nest.
You’d think this daily miracle would be excitement enough, but one day the rooster showed up. I went out to feed the chickens and there he was, strutting proudly and crowing outside where the hens were kept.
I rushed inside, waking up our young friend and houseguest Bryan, as I loudly announced that there was a visitor by our hen house.
“There’s a rooster in our yard,” I called breathlessly — the matter being of such importance that I had burst into the bathroom where my husband was showering. He took it in stride, having been raised on a ranch and poultry being an everyday thing.
“There’s a moose in the yard?” Bryan called out sleepily.
“No — a rooster!” I corrected him. That obviously did not excite him as much as the idea of seeing an actual moose in downtown Salida, so he promptly went back to sleep.
I rushed outside. There he was — a fine figure of a rooster — still prowling restlessly and ready for the hens to come out. He trailed a broken leash on one talon, indicating that he was obviously a renegade rooster and his owner had attempted to restrict his roaming. The call of our hens was too strong to resist, hence the latest breakout.
Now this was excitement I had never experienced in the city. The hens were in a frenzy, throwing themselves against the glass windows in a vain attempt to get out. I debated a minute. If I opened the windows, the hens would be free and then what? Rampant chicken sex? Having been raised Catholic, I hesitated. The eggs we eat would then be fertilized — and what would that mean in the religious scheme of things?
This was getting too deep. I was merely a pawn in the pre-ordained game of chicken chess. Who am I to resist the forces of nature? I threw the windows open — let the chicken sex begin!
THAT WAS OUR FIRST visiting rooster experience. Having found out that he lived a block away, we regularly returned him — with Jack carrying him by his feet and retying his leash. The hens always seemed glad for the visit.
Then the other rooster showed up. He was loud — definitely a disturbance to neighborhood peace — and wild. We woke up one morning and there he was, limping with a painful gait and single-minded in his purpose.
Jack caught him — no easy task — and we clipped off the long hardened spurs that were digging into his upper legs. Now we had Rooster #2 and no idea whence he came.
Later that day, the story began to unfold. Some of the seniors at the local high school had pulled a senior prank and left the rooster in the principal’s office. The custodian (a neighbor’s son) — not knowing what to do with the bird — remembered that we had chickens and dumped him off in our yard. It was a classic drive-by roostering.
Jack and I were perplexed on what to do with this uninvited loud-mouthed guest. I called the local paper and a reporter came by to photograph the rooster and interview me on the details, hoping the exposure would get the rooster back to his owners and out of our yard.
The next day, we woke at 4:30 a.m. (along with at least three of our neighbors who contacted the police) to the not so pleasant sound of two roosters vying for dominance over our hens. Loud, shrill, constant crowing nearly drove us out of our minds — they were the roosters from hell – and it was a relief when the police showed up at 7 a.m.
Jack answered the door and the officer announced that there had been several complaints called in about our roosters and we needed to do something about them. Jack politely explained that they weren’t our roosters and he was welcome to call animal control to remove them.
THE OFFICER STARED at Jack and said, “These aren’t your roosters? So you don’t care what happens to them? Then why don’t you just whack them?”
Jack answered calmly, “But they’re not our roosters to whack. Besides, my wife wouldn’t allow any roosters to be whacked on this property.”
The officer grimaced and said, “We don’t have an animal control officer. I’m not sure what to do about this. I’ll have to check the ordinances; I’ll be back.” He then left, eyeing the roosters with suspicion.
Shortly thereafter, the officer reappeared with a large cardboard box. Glancing out the window at the uniformed police officer racing in vain around our yard, I suggested that Jack assist him in catching the roosters.
I also popped out in my frumpy housewife robe and fuzzy slippers to ask the perspiring officer if he really thought that putting two fighting cocks in one box was a good idea. I told him I would find another box and some duct tape. He thanked me and said that his plan was to bring the roosters to his in-law’s home in the country and that they would be fine running around with their chickens.
He also added that if we couldn’t catch the roosters, he was going to whack them with his baton. I withdrew inside and asked Jack to please catch the roosters, since there was to be no rooster whacking in my presence.
Within two minutes, Jack had an angry upside down rooster in each hand and helped the officer stuff them in separate boxes, secured with duct tape. Off went the renegade roosters in the squad car.
The article in the paper ran the next day under the headline: “Don’t be Chicken — Claim Your Rooster”. We did receive some rooster rescue calls, but by then it was too late.
Patty Lataille gathers eggs daily and thanks her hens for their contributions. She lives in Salida and works as a freelance writer/editor, ski/snowboard instructor, river guide and pet sitter.
