When having chickens isn't glamorous

He launched himself off the bus and made it to the house in three monstrous leaps. He was out of breath. Not because the bus ride was so strenuous, but because he was so utterly overwhelmed and giddy about what he needed to say.

"Mom. (huge breath) I think I saw a (huge breath) big Barred Rock rooster (two huge breaths) and he ran (huge breath) across the road (huge breath) and into the (huge breath) tall grass!"





*crickets chirping*




"What?"

The floodgates broke and his words flew free: "abigblackBarredRockrooster andhe ranacrosstheroadrightbeside thebus".

There are no black roosters here.

"What? With feathers?"

"It looked like a Barred Rock Rooster and he ran across the road. With feathers."

Impossible.

"Are you sure it was feathers? Maybe it was fur. Was it a badger or a raccoon or a skunk?"

Because people mistake badgers for roosters all the time.

He cocked his head to the side, "I think maybe it was a turkey".

"Right", I agreed in complete disbelief, "a turkey".

The disastrous unending chaos that is our normal school-day afternoon and evening caused me to completely forget about that wacky conversation. After all, it was only one of many that fill my mommy-days. Like so many things that I want to remember, I promptly forgot about it.

Until.

Until the boys were in bed, The Bean ready to head to her bed, and a huge pile of dirty dishes in the kitchen sink. Until I heard an unfamiliar noise. Until I looked out our back door and saw my husband with...





*wait for it*





With a very large annoyed black rooster in his arms.

Now honestly. What the heck is this.

I dropped my bedtime Bean and stepped out the back door to assess the situation. She took this as an opportunity to escape out the front door. It was a clever move on her part since a rogue rooster is more than enough to sufficiently distract her mother.


Bean exit stage left.


He hung onto that mythical Black Rooster just long enough for the boys to get a peek. They deserved a free pass out of bed to see this. The Older Brother had seen almost exactly what he thought he'd seen. Almost. It was no Barred Rock. But still.

I took a closer look.

Lord. Have. Mercy. He was infested with parasites. Just crawling with them. Many different kinds.

We figured chances were good he'd never last the night (coyotes and all), and let him go. He was gone. Fine with me because Lord knows I already have more on my hands than I can deal with.


Big Black Rooster exit stage right.


Nearly a full day later, guess who came marching straight through our yard like he owned the place. The second evening he magically appeared again. He wanted to stay. I watched through the window as he puttered around the yard, cautiously approaching my hens. I was certain he didn't belong to any of our neighbors.

Our dog wouldn't touch him because, well, it's a chicken. Around here, chickens are to be defended, not attacked. It's part of her job description. It seems I've trained her well.

My headache:

1. Would my very healthy flock now come down with all the yuck he'd exposed them to?
2. Could I catch him to medicate for all the filth he was carrying?
3. Would it even be possible to treat that severe level of disease?
4. Could he peacefully spend his days with a flock already ruled by a Red Rooster?
5. Would there be some serious rooster drama?
6. Would he attack my kids?
7. Would he refuse to go into the coop at night and freeze to death when our extreme cold arrives?
8. Either I keep him or I don't.
9. People who dump animals off in the country are cowards.
10. Where's a coyote when I really need one.

Option A:

"Shoot him", I muttered to my husband.

He laughed and walked out of the room, "You shoot him".

*sigh*

If it had been a badger or a raccoon or a skunk, I wouldn't hesitate to take care of business. I've done it before.

Option B:

I meandered my use-no-chemicals-attitude self through all five (or was it even that many?) "animal health" aisles of our local farm store. I couldn't find what I was looking for, and no one seemed interested in helping me. I didn't want to be there. I was sweaty. I was hungry. I was frustrated.

The item for "livestock and horse" was there.

The shelf that was supposed to hold the "poultry" version was empty.

Apparently it's a hot item.

I slammed my car door and headed across town to the other farm store. Aren't we lucky to have two? Maybe not. They had only one aisle for "animal health". None of the four items on the mostly bare shelves had anything even slightly to do with healthy or diseased chickens.

Vaguely recalling that chickens are officially classified as livestock, I found myself back at the first store. Funny it didn't occur to me to check the fine print on that label the first time. Sure enough, there it was: the "livestock and horse" version works just fine for chickens too.

All the miles home, with a few groceries and a can of chemicals in my back seat, I was still debating precisely what my plan of action would be. As I pulled into our yard, Big Black Roo was dancing up to the ladies whistling "Hey Baby!". Really? I was not amused. At all. And in that moment, I knew exactly what that shaker can of "livestock and horse dust" was going to be used for...