SILENT MORNING

.  .  .  .  .  continued from the previous post: THE GREAT ESCAPE

Every night, I locked Roosterman into Lucy's old coop so that at dawn he could crow his little head off without waking the whole neighborhood.  Each morning I'd let him out, so he could crow all day.  

But this morning was strangely silent.

Roosterman was gone.

The predator had been swift and efficient-- 

Marky and I found no blood, no body parts... only a few orange feathers on the ground in front of his little coop.

  

I think it must have been a fox or a fisher cat that took him.

  

I regret that I didn't provide sufficiently for Roosterman's safety.

I had tried to get him into his coop yesterday evening but he wouldn't go without a fight, so I left him out in the yard in his little mobile cage.  I was going to return and put him in the coop at bedtime, because in darkness I could pick him up without much of a struggle. 

But I forgot, and left him out. 

I do, however, think this was the best ending I could have hoped for him.  I feel it would be an honor for his body to fill the bellies of a litter of fox kits.

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  

Roosterman had a rich life spanning four lovely seasons.

He hatched last year in the warm summer. 

Lucy raised him and adored him.

He grew quickly, but remained quite the 'mama's boy'.

You could tell the weather by him:

He stood proud in the sun, and stood tall in the rain.

He was a manly-man, as roosters tend to be.

Very handsome, and chivalrous.

His singing voice was ear-splitting. 

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  

In recent months, he started to peck the living daylights out of me.  

Not because he was evil --

but because the hens considered me their rooster and protector.  This deeply offended Roosterman's totally macho manliness.


I understood, and I tolerated the abuse.

Roosterman never let down his guard.  He was a serious fella, with a mission to protect and win the love and attention of the ladies. He would have fought to the death for them, and they truly adored him.  I understand now why the rooster is a symbol of courage, virility and respect in so many cultures.

Roosterman was a heck of a lot of trouble, and my memories of him will not all be fond... 


But .... the silence in our yard today

is deafening.


.  .  .  .  next blog post: GASP

CHICKENS AND A TERRIER

Continued from the previous post:  ROOSTERMAN

An integral member of the flock: Marky.

He was here long before the chickens.

We got him from a shelter nine years ago.  He's part schnauzer, part eskimo.
    

...Schnauskimo?

Marky enjoys a warm summer breeze,

he loves a good run.

And he can do a pretty good imitation of road-kill.








Because he's a terrier, hunting small creatures is his strength.

Fortunately, catching small creatures is not .

When the chicks were small, Marky watched them eagerly with quivering, drooling lips.

Once they were big, not much changed.  I didn't hold much hope of his ever being able to view them as anything but prey.

One day I'd left the coop door ajar for only a moment, and Marky squeezed in.  

The birds squawked, feathers flew, Marky spun around in circles snapping his jaws.  I was there, right there.  The chickens were okay.    I looked at Marky and burst into the biggest freakingest shriekingest fit that Marky had ever seen.  

And at that very moment:

Marky's little brain

understood.

The chickens are mine, not his.  

With his new firm understanding, 

Marky began to accept his job as flock-leader and protector.

Now when I feed the chickens, Marky gets the first bit of chicken feed,

The first piece of bread-crust.

He barks at hawks and buzzards overhead, and chases foxes out of the yard.

He is careful and respectful of the chickens, and they respect him.

...except for Roosterman.

It was a horrible sight.  Roosterman would ambush Marky and attack from behind...again and again and again. 

Marky would look at me totally confused...    Should he defend himself from this lunatic?

One day Marky couldn't take it anymore.  He swirled around and grabbed Roosterman in mid-attack.   Flung him to the ground.  Flattened him like a feathered pancake.

Marky would have sunk his fangs into Roosterman, but he couldn't figure out where to bite.

Lucky for Roosterman, I was right there.   I traded a biscuit for Roosterman, and assured  Marky that he was a good dog.   Then I put Roosterman in the wire cage, and he has not been a free man since.   

Goodness knows I've tried to find a home for the guy.

But Craigslist has dozens of listings for free roosters.

I've even driven him from farm to farm offering money if they'd just take him.

The farmers laughed.

So the loony rooster still lives with us.  

I had everything under control except his crowing -- which begins at about 4 am.

I came up with a solution for that:

Lucy's little old coop was vacant, so I dragged it into the woods and piled leaves up all around it.   Now he can crow all morning and nobody can hear him.  When I'm pretty sure the neighbors are up, I let him out.

Dilemmas, solutions, reactions... there's always something.

And if there's one thing the critters have taught me it's that things change.  

You can count on dawn and on dusk --  but between the two, nothing is the same.

Lucy's mangled toes have good days and bad days.

Some days there are three eggs in the nestbox, some days there are none.

And when Hatsy's  illness eventually caught up with her,  the flock understood.

I'm the one who had trouble adjusting.

Next blog entry : CHANGE