Now understand, I work out of my home in my basement office. I do tech support for a software company and talk to church ladies all day long. The basement level window to my office apparently works like a mirror to these four roosters, turning them into eight, as they challenged their reflection in the window crowing louder and louder to prove their dominance to the remaining hens.

Oh, the poor hens. Let’s do the math. There were 4 roosters and 11 hens, poor, poor hens. Understanding the biology of the chicken world, this is not a gentle act. There are no flowers, no candy, no chocolates. There’s a lot of screaming and feathers flying. Many “hot” chicks had sunburn on their backs from lack of feathers.

Farmer David, with his straw hat and hayseed, would spend hours sitting on a wrought iron park bench that he dragged out of my garden so he could watch his chickens. This was a little embarrassing as people would come up to the house looking for the town cop, asking why there was a park bench by the chicken coop.

“Ummm, we’re, ummmm, refinishing it. Yeah, that’s it. Don’t want fumes near the house” sounded convincing, right?

The chickens grew quite large and produced a dozen or so fresh eggs daily. They really weren’t too much trouble, aside from the incessant crowing at my window and actually kept the bug population down that year.

David had to expand his nightly routine of locking the Post Office, locking the park bathrooms, to include counting and putting his chickens to bed. Occasionally, the chickens would find that the neighbor’s shed was a much more convenient place to roost at night. On these nights, my husband, frantic that his chickens would be harmed, would drive the squad car to the remote outbuilding and give them a lift (yes, in the caged backseat) home.

More than one prisoner asked why there were feathers in the backseat of the squad car.

The chickens survived a mild winter with no losses.

The Infirmary

Early that spring, once the snow melted, the chickens would wander around the yard.

While working in my basement office, I saw a cat streak across the yard and down the driveway. “David, a cat’s got one of your chickens”

David ran out of the house, drawing his sidearm, and ran down the driveway.

Keep in mind this cat is no stranger, we see the grey and white cat quite frequently in the yard, and the garage, and the garbage. He had never tried to go after the chickens before, but it wouldn’t be the last time.

The cat, the grey and white cat, David’s nemesis.

By the time he got to the bottom of the driveway, screaming and yelling “Stop, Police” the cat let go of the rooster and ran off. David ever so gently cradled the rooster in his arms and came back to the house. The rooster, bleeding from several injuries to his back, and an obvious broken leg, was not in good shape.

“David, you have to put that poor thing out of it’s misery”

“No” he said “I can fix it”

Yet, one more trip to Menards for supplies for a chicken infirmary.

He tenderly dressed all of the rooster’s wounds, including washing out with peroxide and applying Neosporin to the cuts. But the broken leg, what to do with the broken leg.

Keep in mind, we have four daughters. Four teenaged daughters.

David pondered the broken leg most of the day. What to do with the broken leg, he’s ask during dinner. What to do with the broken leg, as he’s watching tv.

“Put it out of it’s misery” I’d repeat, again, and again.

What to do with the broken leg, as he’s using the bathroom. Next to the toilet, as in most homes, is the garbage can. Did I mention we have four daughters.

“I’ve got it!” he hollers from the bathroom, coming out with a Super Tampax cardboard applicator in his hand.

“Oh, God, no, David”

He goes to the newly constructed infirmary and slips the applicator over the chickens foot and tapes it to the leg.

To my shock and David’s glee, the chicken survived. Now with the nickname “Half Dead”, understanding he now walks with a limp and crows with a lisp and the other roosters just made fun of him.

David’ with his chest puffed up, took on the nickname “Chicken Whisperer”. Oy.