Parkhurst: Roosters are nothing to crow about

I have always enjoyed having farm-fresh eggs. Especially the ones coming from my own chicken house. As far as the eggs themselves are concerned, any color but white is fine with me.

I’ve been told there is no difference in nutrition no matter what the color of the shell — nevertheless I have always preferred brown shells over white. And my all time favorite are the varied color eggs produced by the Arcadias breed of chickens, sometimes called the Easter Egg Chickens. Rhode Island Reds are probably my next favorite laying hen because of their gentle nature and consistent laying ability.

Anyway, every other year I would make a trip to Marty’s Hatchery in Windsor to refresh my flock of laying chickens. In 1983, for some reason, I was running late. By the time I got to Marty’s, all they had left was straight-run chicks. Turned out about half were roosters. David Martin took one because he thought his hens needed one and he liked the sound of a rooster crowing early in the morning.

And so it went; some wound up in the stew pot along with the old hens, but when spring came along I still had a half dozen of those roosters strutting around. I didn’t mind until one Saturday morning in mid-July. Our son, David, was 4 years old and his favorite thing was to go to the chicken house, basket in hand, and gather the eggs. On that morning he came running back to the house screaming to the top of his lungs. One of those roosters had flogged him while he was gathering the eggs.

Now if you have never been flogged by roosters, with razor-sharp 2-inch spurs, consider yourself fortunate — it is a real scary experience!

David had a gash on his left shoulder that was bleeding and another under his T-shirt on his rib cage. I was furious. Stomping into the chicken yard, I approached one of the suspects who charged me. Whacking him across the head with a stick I had picked up, he rolled over somewhat confused. Then another came at me and ruffled up his neck feathers; I soccer kicked him to the edge of the pen. As my anger subsided, I realized violence is not the way to handle this. After all, they were just being territorial, so I had a talk with them.

I said, “So you guys think you are really tough. Well, tomorrow we’ll find out just how tough you are — better say goodbye to your girlfriends.”

Going into the chicken house that night with a flashlight, I grabbed each one by the legs and stuffed them into an old wooden chicken crate. The next morning, I loaded them up along with a rubber tub for water and a pan of chicken feed. I had mowed off a glen-type area north of the house about a quarter-mile away, where my plan was for them to become free-range chickens. The feed and water was placed in the middle of this 150-foot circle of small trees.

Then, opening the crate, I watched as one by one they hopped out and surveyed their new kingdom. Doing the chicken thing, they pecked around the freshly mown grass; when they went over to the pan full of water and got a drink, all was peaceful and natural. I loaded up the crate and drove back to the house and told Judy I thought everything would be OK.

She responded with something like, “What do you mean OK? Now we’ve got a gang of rogue roosters roaming around ready to attack anyone who goes up in that area!”

I hardly slept that night worrying about those stupid roosters. After all, I had raised them from cute little fuzzy chicks and this was the first night they did not have the security and safety of the chicken house. Finally, about 6:30 the next morning, I couldn’t stand it anymore. I got in the pickup and drove up there to see how they got along overnight.

Stepping into the mowed opening, I was horrified! For a moment I just stood there and surveyed the scene. Within a 25-foot circle of the feed and water were six piles of feathers and blood — not one rooster left! At least one of them had put up a futile fight as there were tufts of coyote hair in the grass. Evidently, a pack of coyotes had come through during the night and discovered this chicken smorgasbord just waiting for them in the area, mowed off like a picnic ground.

I guess the moral of this story is: Tough guys don’t last — there is always someone tougher than you are. Roosters gone, David merrily trotted down to the chicken house the next morning to gather his eggs — with me along.