August 1996
Los Tres Gallos
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.
