News Press Essayist Amy Bennett Williams maintains an exurban homestead of sorts – populated by a menagerie of animals including chickens. Her family enjoys the fresh eggs. But sometimes, as we learn this week, a shadow falls.
The first clue was the squabbling. Though waves of crankiness occasionally wash over our poultry population, things around our homestead are, for the most part, peaceful. That's extraordinary, considering our free-ranging flock of chickens, ducks and one crooked-necked goose isn't the product of any deliberate livestock management policies.
There's no good reason, for example, to keep roosters unless you intend to multiply your flock. Hens will lay, bred or not. Roosters are famously loud and root up the yard like hogs after grubs. Plus, those spurs on their legs are no mere decorations; they're miniature horns that can slice open pant legs and draw blood – just ask any country kid who's been ambushed.
And yet, when a pal showed up bearing the gift of a couple of flea market hens and a scrawny rooster, we didn't do the sensible thing and cull the rooster. Partly because we were sure he was ancient and wouldn't survive long – soon after he arrived, he got even thinner and started drooping visibly – and partly because, well, we tend to be disgracefully disinclined to personally dispatching our critters.
Yes, we're well aware of the implicit hypocrisy, and we do want our boys to know meat doesn't grow in plastic-wrapped foam trays, so we have occasionally gritted our teeth and done the deed, but I can count the occasions on one hand (one hand making a peace sign).
So, we let the sickly rooster stay, fully expecting to find him in a stiff, raggedy heap one morning. That was six years ago. Instead of quietly dying, the moribund bird got better, got bigger and got beautiful – so outlandishly beautiful, we named him Beau, after Mr. Brummel, the celebrated British dandy. Flaxen-maned, with glossy auburn hackles, bronze wings and an arching emerald tail, I've never seen a rooster more dashing than Beau.
Or one more gentlemanly. Unlike every other rooster I'd ever known, not only was he utterly docile with us and the kids, he was chivalrous to a fault.
When we'd step onto the porch to toss bread crusts or stale crackers, Beau would rush over to inspect the offering. If it met with his approval, he'd call his hens.
When they arrived, he'd jerk his head to point it out to the ladies, but not eat it himself. If they didn't see the food, he'd lean in, pluck a piece from the ground and toss it to one as if saying, "Here – take this, Love – it's for you." Somewhere, I have a video of him doing this with day-old pasta, flinging a strand at each of his hens until they'd all eaten.
Beau was unfailingly watchful, too. If a raptor's shadow passed overhead, he'd cock one glittering eye skyward and give the alarm call, a long, urgent cry that brought the hens running to his side. Though the woods that surround us on three sides shelter foxes and bobcats, nighttime predation was a rarity, thanks to his vigilance.
Beau also welcomed every new critter we brought home – rowdy kittens, deaf dogs and an assortment of poultry that all somehow became part of his extended family. Even birds two or three times his size – Goosifer towered over him – Beau was the benevolent boss. He spent his days marching his ragtag platoon toward patches of choice grass or spilled bird seed. He didn't tolerate conflict in the ranks either – the day-to-day fussing and bullying that goes on in some flocks. Should anyone step out of line, if one of Beau's low growls didn't snap them back into place, a short, sharp shot with beak or spur would.
But as I said, that was almost never necessary because of the peace Beau kept, sweetened with the goodies he'd regularly toss out. Even if he hadn't been such a sterling character, it still would have been a treat having him around just to be able to see him perched on a railing like a piece of sculpture.
Roger and I regularly marveled at what a good rooster he was, so much so that about a year ago, we stopped taking away the eggs laid daily by his favorite hen. Beau can't last forever, we reasoned; it'd be good to have some of his offspring around. Even though three of the resulting brood of four turned out to be roosters (none remotely as handsome), Beau managed to keep harmony.
Until that morning when I heard all the scuffling. As I poured my coffee, the squawking turned to shrieking. Through the window, I saw one of the young roosters chasing a frantic hen as the other two circled each other, growling, occasionally landing blows that sent up puffs of red-tinged feathers.
As I dashed down the stairs to set things right, I saw a scattering of lovely long tail plumes and a piece of golden wing. No body. I can only assume whatever came out of the woods for one of his fat hens instead got a faceful of feathered fury, our beautiful, brave Beau.