Los Tres Gallos

Christine Haese
August 1996

Los Tres Gallos

"That's it!"  I shrieked at the roosters, chasing them as they ran into the forest. "I hope a coyote eats you for dinner."

Even as I yelled the exasperated words I knew the brightly colored birds had won another battle. But eventually I vowed, I would win the war.

The war began when I saved their lives (the first time). I didn't own a rooster - and it should have stayed that way. I had received a dozen fertile eggs to put under an old broody hen. The buff Orpington biddy could probably incubate two dozen eggs with her massive body. She was dedicated to her job. A "tight sitter" was what old-timers called her. I candled the eggs after two weeks and saw six eggs had developed inside with jelly-like embryos, bulging eyes and pulsing blood. I discarded the infertile eggs.

This beautiful hen was good at sitting on her eggs, but unfortunately, not dedicated to hatching and brooding. In fact, Mommy Dearest (as we later named her) had to be relieved of her duties in the hen house. She had the miserable trait of being too curious and playful during hatching. As the chicks emerged, one by one, instead of tucking them under her feathers and warming their tiny bodies, she would hurl them from the nest. The newborn chicks, wet and helpless, tossed onto the chicken coop soil, soon began to die. When I observed this routine, I watched closely, hoping she was just frustrated and soon would learn to care for her babies. After a few minutes, the chicks once again began to fly prematurely through the air. At the end of the day there were three dead babies and four pipped eggs. So here it was - rescue number one. I saved the remaining hatchlings from a dysfunctional and truly fowl life.     

I took the remaining four eggs and put them under a light bulb, keeping them moist with an occasional spray of water and covering them with a warm towel. Within a few hours all four chicks were peeping puffs of down, running around the cardboard box, eating, and drinking on their own. They grew quickly and became imprinted pets that followed wherever I went.

One chick was a pullet and the other three were cockerels. The pullet began to lay pastel, blue eggs about eight months later. At the same time, the colorful cockerels, with silver-laced feathers and tall tails, began to develop their voices.  I could hardly tell them apart, it was as if they were hatched from the same egg.

The old hens in the hen house were accustomed to bossing the younger cockerels, but with puberty approaching, the boys welcomed their male roles and things changed quickly.

The three cockerels were inseparable and went everywhere together. They clucked to each other and moved throughout the yard, pointing out insects and even sleeping together on a roost in the barn.

I noticed one strange trait from the beginning. When they first started crowing, instead of the usual crackly screams and squawks, with months of practice attempting to perfect their crow, their voices were loud and melodious. In fact, they were so good at crowing, they took it on as a full time job. They crowed day and night. There was a continual crowing competition between the three, fast maturing roosters. First the loudest would start, usually about 3 a.m. The other roosters would echo, and then back and forth they went. They never shut up. My throat ached in sympathy as I listened to the three perform their reveille before the sun began to rise.

"When are we going to get rid of those roosters?"  My husband once asked. We've never had roosters crow that high, shrill or that much. And they're definitely the loudest roosters I've ever heard!  They are also bad a telling time." 

"But you've got to admit," I added, "They're good at defending their territory." 

New neighbors had recently moved from Phoenix and were anxious to begin stocking the ranch they had bought. They purchased 36 pullets and were eager to obtain a rooster. I told them that they didn't really need a rooster; they would probably get better production without one. But they were insistent and thought our three roosters were wonderful. (and yes, I was sure we could part with them.)

After some discussion and the family inspecting the three roosters carefully, they all agreed. "These are the most beautiful chickens we've ever seen."

I gave them my best word of warning... "You know these roosters crow all the time. They crow during the day and at night and they're loud."

"That's OK, that's what we want. The sounds of life in the country." 

"You're guaranteed to have that with these three guys!"

They liked the roosters so much (and I certainly would take no money for the poultry pests) that they gave me a in a couple of laying pullets to add to our flock. I felt guilty, sucking life from the new folks. The remorse quickly faded as I walked home with a beautiful white Leghorns tucked under each arm. Egg production increased steadily in our barn, and  the morning duets could l be heard in the distance.

I talked to my neighbors from time to time. Each time, they expressed a little less joy as they talked about the roosters. Within a year they had sold the ranch and were moving back into town.

"We can't take the roosters with us, would you like to take them back?"

" No." I said firmly, "You might as well just butcher them and put them in your freezer. They would be good eating." Looking down I saw two little girls crying as they thought of eating their pets. Their father assured me quietly, "Yes, he would do just that. Early in the morning, sometime before they moved."

I watched down the road as the moving van swelled with furniture and waved as our neighbors drove away. The next morning about 3 am I heard the familiar sound across the fields. It was shrill, high-pitched, and very, very loud. The girl's tears had won. Now what?

Driving to work that morning I noticed the roosters drinking from a cattle tank about 1/2 mile from their isolated ranch. It was early summer and the monsoon rains had not yet begun. I worried, but after two weeks the roosters had survived. Mr. Coyote had tried several times to catch them, but they had increased their speed and flight. Whenever predators came nearby, they flew into a nearby juniper tree, hopping higher and higher. I marveled at their speed and survival skills. They probably could have taken care of themselves forever. Except for one thing - water. The tank was drying up fast in the heat, and the birds were requiring more water. Traveling to the tank in the heat was the beginning of a desperate situation. I knew they wouldn't last long. Taking a coffee can filled with chicken feed, I went over to the abandoned ranch house. The birds quickly ran away as I sprinkled the pellets in the yard. I waited and watched. They squawked and hollered at the top of their lungs. Finally when I considered them totally ungrateful and walked away, I noticed them cautiously approaching the feed. Soon they began to eat passionately. Seeing their hunger and against my good sense, I decided to save their lives... again.

In the dark of night with my husband trailing along we grabbed the birds from their roost in the tree. They protested loudly, squawking and screaming in the silent darkness.

"Common chicken thieves!  That's what we are. In another time we would be hung!"

"Now what will we do with these three?

I don't know, find a home for them, I guess. Somebody has to need some nice barnyard roosters. We placed them on their favorite roosting fence and left.

The ad ran for three weeks. It read:  FREE: Organic, self-composting, beautifully feathered alarm clocks. You'll never be late for work again!  Guaranteed.  

We didn’t receive a single call.

Getting up at 5 am isn't a problem for our family. But waking at 3 am. listening to those roosters in their crowing competition was more than we could adjust to.

"When are we going to get rid of those three roosters?" I was asked again.

A friend of mine has a large ranch near Holbrook, Arizona. Her barn is about a mile from the house. I warned her. "These roosters are from a dysfunctional brood and their mother abused them. They're hard on hens and even harder on your ears."

"It's OK. We won't even know they're here. They'll have food and water and by the way, we have another big rooster. He's ruled the roost for many years and he'll keep them in line."

It sounded ideal to me, so before sunlight, I got up, captured the trio and boxed them for the sixty-mile ride. As I was loading them into the back of my SUV, the lid suddenly jolted open and a feral rooster ran long-stridden into the forest. Now what?

Should I open the lid and let the others go free? They've always lived together. They’re brothers. Prying open the lid I watched as the two roosters went squawking after their sibling. They called back and forth until they found each other in the twilight. We did not see them the entire day.

That evening we listened as the trio started their familiar refrain. They had found their way back to their roosting spot and our ears were tormented once again.

I felt my husband's hand on my shoulder as he softly murmured, "When are we going to get rid of those roosters?"