This is our rooster.


Yo.  I’m the rooster.

I’m writing about our rooster because I expect I will end up writing about all the chickens at some point and I might as well start with this one.  Not because he’s the best chicken, or my favorite chicken, or even the most easily photographed chicken, but because he’s the most likely chicken to be removed in some kind of tragic, de-roostering incident at our house and he deserves his fifteen minutes of internet fame before that happens.

We’ve already had five, yes five, roosters that had to be decommissioned after their roosterness became too much to handle.  And just in case you are wondering why we keep getting roosters when we clearly are auditorially unsuited for a rooster let me explain:

WE DON’T WANT ANY ROOSTERS.

And yet, this simple rule, established when we first talked about getting chickens, has been spit upon repeatedly by the universe.

To start, we bought six chickens from someone nearby.

Four of those six were roosters.


Get away from my ladies, yo.  Don’t even think about approaching my ladies.

One by one they met the ax, the last two simultaneously after they started trying to one up each other in the crowing department every morning at 4 a.m.

Two chickens definitely weren’t enough for our egg consumption, so we decided to get some more.  Hedging our bets, we ordered 25 chickens directly from the hatchery.  These chickens were sexed, which means they should have been checked and they should have all been females.

We sold 15 of those chickens and kept ten.

One of those, we knew early on, was clearly a rooster.


I’m serious.  Back away from the ladies or I’m gonna have to give you what’s what.

We tolerated his crowing for a while, until it became so loud it started waking the baby.  And then I came home to silence one day.

“What happened?” I asked Michael.

“He wouldn’t shut up.  I got home and he kept crowing and crowing, and I couldn’t take it anymore.  So I said, ‘Wait here, kids.’  Then I went up and broke his neck.”

“You broke his neck?  Just like that?”

“DON’T MESS WITH ME.”


Mess with you? Oh, I’ll mess with you if you keep coming near my ladies.

We thought that was that.  And then, one day, we started hearing something that sounded suspiciously like…crowing?

Are you kidding universe/chicken hatchery?  Another rooster?

And so it turned out that the chicken we had been calling Hester was, in fact, not a Hester.  Perhaps Fester?

Definitely Fester.

Fester so far hasn’t been that awful.  I don’t know if the lesson from previous roosters has been learned, but so far he’s been pretty tolerable.  And having a rooster isn’t a bad idea, since they help protect the flock.

Except that the one time the flock was actually attacked, Fester ran off into the woods and hid, leaving protection of the flock to PeeWee, Annabel’s favorite and the layer of the pretty blue eggs.  Sadly, PeeWee did not survive the encounter.  But Fester did.

Lucky, lucky us.  Fester survived.

And as long as he stays quiet, he will continue to survive.

You got that, Fester?


I am a majestic chicken, king of all I survey, and protector of my ladies.  Unless something actually happens.  Then I am a giant pansy.


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