Journal of a Living Lady #225
Nancy White Kelly
Big Mac, Henney and
Penney are the newest additions to our backyard menagerie. Mr. Goldenrod, the
little reddish-gold bantam rooster, is not happy.
Perhaps you remember that Buddy had a gray banty rooster
named Mr. Dusty for a few years; last summer he died of natural causes. Buddy
mourned for him. Still does. They were bonded buddies.
Eventually I found Buddy a beautiful young white bantam
rooster at the flea market. I paid $10 for him which is quite a lot in my book
for a chicken.
Buddy responded with pleasure when I presented him with the
surprise gift. However, he eventually admitted that he didn’t like white
chickens. Guess it is because he ate so many of them growing up poor in
Some friends in Blairsville have a menagerie of animals and
poultry also. Their enthusiasm has never waned, so their country property has
developed into a mini-touring farm. School children come from all over to visit
the miniature donkeys, peacocks, and llamas. Sarah, a school teacher, and her
husband, Ralph, are enthusiastic hosts.
On a recent drop-by, Sarah gave Buddy an extremely feisty
bantam rooster. She and the rooster were not pals in the least. In fact, the
cocky little rooster spurred Sarah badly as she was handing him off to Buddy.
Buddy delighted in the challenge to tame the cocky cock. Sure
enough, within days Mr. Goldenrod was riding on Buddy’s shoulder and taking
advantage of any open door to the house. The rooster loves to sit on the
computer speakers. Mr. Goldenrod relates to this techno-environment. Buddy hunts
and pecks like he does, not for corn or bugs, but for letters on the keyboard.
I am fond of dominecker chickens which are sometimes called
Barred Rock. Their stripes look like old-time convict uniforms. This breed is
known to be good layers.
When I developed my
annual spring fever just before Easter, I had to settle for a dozen solid black
chickens known as the black sex link variety. No barred rock hens were to be
found though I scouted the hills and the newspaper ads.
Those black biddies are now past the pullet stage and are
almost hens themselves. When I unexpectedly found Big Mac, Henney and Penney
Dominecker for sale at the flea market recently, I couldn’t resist. I dared not
wait to ask Buddy’s opinion. They might be gone by the time I got back. Where
is that cell phone when you need it?
Buddy wasn’t too happy when I backed up our station wagon to
the converted screened gazebo in the back yard to unload our new fowl residents.
Since our eight guineas and four pheasants escaped the day after we bought them
several weeks ago, I figured we had plenty of room for the new additions.
Unfortunately, I hadn’t allowed for the growth of maturing hens.
At sundown, all 10 black hens, my lone red sex link hen, three
young black sex-link biddies, and the new, three-member chain gang, crowded for
space in the gazebo. The chicken sanctuary and rafter choir was clearly full.
Our three baby turkeys, Bud, Abbie, and Costello, are
beginning to get some feathers. With all the commotion overhead, they
voluntarily entered the portable pet carrier on the plank floor.
The turkey trio is
not shy. During the day, they follow Buddy around the yard singing, “Mary may
have had a little lamb, but Mr. Buddy has us.” Of this I am sure. Those little gobblers
will never dress anybody’s Thanksgiving table. They are family
But the roosters haven’t established tenure yet. Big Mac
and Mr. Goldenrod are like David and Goliath. The first day on the Kelly farm the
two roosters fought seriously. Buddy had to put Mr. Goldenrod in the shop to keep
him from getting killed.
Buddy let Mr. Goldenrod out the next morning and the two
roosters went at it again. Same thing on day three, but the rounds were getting
noticeably shorter.
Big Mac, the heavy pugilist weighing in at fifteen pounds,
crows loudly, huffs, puffs and struts pompously. He does a good job of pretending
to be King of the Kelly Harem.
Mr. Goldenrod, the miniature sixteen-ounce featherweight, ruffles
his feathers and jumps all around Big Mac, egging him on for the championship title.
Little ever comes from the boisterous confrontations except a few feathers and
a lot of noise. Big Mac and Mr. Goldenrod still shadow box some everyday, but
have obviously developed a “live and let live” philosophy.
If one of the roosters gets too rough, then I suppose Big
Mac will be the one to go. But I need him. My hens need him for posterity.
Buddy insists Henney and Penney will lay eggs without Big
Mac. I know that. But, for me, part
of the pleasure of chicken farming is watching the actions of a mother hen, feeding
her biddies, teaching them, and protecting them against the varmints of the world
at any cost.
That’s inspiring. There aren’t many positive role models
anymore.
***
