The trouble with roosters

Ugh. I am just sick.

This afternoon I walked out to the barn with my baby in one arm, and a jug of water in the other.

I had to bring the baby with because I cannot trust my three year old around her anymore. I am completely at a loss of what to do with him. It became apparent today that I can't step out of a room for even a minute, if he can get to her... so to the barn she came.

After I made it through our sloppy mud to the barn, I happened to see the Barred Rock rooster, Fritz. He was muddy, and blood was dripping off his head. The frostbitten part of his comb had finally fallen off.

But something didn't seem quite right, and yes indeed, it was much, much worse than that. (no photos, I promise)

Hiding in a corner and squinting at me through one eye was the Buff Orpington rooster, Red. To say he looked awful would be an understatement. He was also muddy and dripping blood. His swollen face, his droopy wings, everything about him read utter defeat.

These two roosters have gotten along with each other marvelously. I have been amazed daily, as I see them puttering around with the hens, always tolerating one another. Once in awhile Red would give Fritz a dirty look and chase him for five seconds. If one rooster saw the other mount a hen, he would come running and with one swift kick dismount his rival. Although, that was more hilarious than menacing, and I laughed out loud every time I saw it happen.

That was the full extent of any turmoil between the two of them.

It might sound crazy, but I am frustrated beyond belief, because I thought I was constantly aware of the relationship these two had. I knew there was a real potential for fighting, but I expected to see some bickering and picking at one another before anything meaningful happened.

But there was none, and I was bloody wrong.

I did not see this coming. At all.

The battle had obviously been a vicious one, and it started with no warning. I had been out just hours earlier, and at that time all was well.

I couldn't do a thing to inspect them. Besides not being dressed for mud and blood, there was a baby in my arms calling them "tee tee" (kitty).

Back to the house with a heavy heart, to deal with an out of control three year old boy.

By the time I was able to return to the barn, the birds had gone to roost for the night. Red was cowering in the coop with one hen. King Fritz was just outside the coop on their porch (the location they normally put themselves to bed, much to my dismay), with the other nine hens.

A line had been drawn, invisible but powerful. Despite shake-ups being horrific, the social structure of chickens is fascinating. They don't hesitate to take care of business.

Sleepy chickens are easy to handle.

I grabbed Red first, and I just wanted to cry. There are laws against cockfighting for a reason. He was sulking, and just plain miserable. I covered his entire swollen, sliced up head with antibiotic ointment.

Fritz was clearly the winner. I used half as much ointment on his head, and then locked him out of the coop with everyone else inside.

He wanted in. Badly.

He was clucking and growling at the coop door. The hens wandered around inside the coop making a noise I haven't heard since they were tiny. They sounded like lost, confused baby chicks. They wanted their king.

Poor Red just stood there among the hens, invisible to them.

What is clear is that I will not have two roosters for long. What remains to be seen is which one will survive.

Red usually keeps better watch of the hens, while Fritz prefers to march around the barn loft looking pretty and listen to himself sing.

I want my rooster to be useful, not just barn decoration.

Tomorrow I will make Red a safe little place to rest and heal away from the other chickens. I doubt that he can escape an infection, but if it becomes apparent that he can survive his wounds, I will make certain that Fritz does not survive his.

Just like the roosters, I can take care of business when necessary too.