Requiem For A Somewhat Terrible Rooster

You do not have to be perfect to be good. We are all flawed, but we are all also worthy of living a full and wonderful life. — Daddy Warclucks, 2017 - 2023

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Here’s What’s Happening At Good Spirits Farm

Daddy Warclucks, the patriarch of our chicken flock, passed away in his sleep this week. He had been heading downhill for a while, and I was preparing to euthanize him on Wednesday night. But on Tuesday, I saw him attacking his food with vigor, and thought, “well maybe it’s not as bad as I think.” By Wednesday, he was gone.

Daddy was one of three roosters that came in my first shipment of chicks. Being new to chickens, I took the advice I read in chicken books when choosing which rooster to keep: Pick the one with the strongest male characteristics. Daddy had luscious tail feathers and a giant red wattle and comb. He had spurs as long and sharp as daggers. He was a very fine specimen. Unfortunately, he also had the annoying trait of being a violent jerk 100 percent of the time.

From the time he hit puberty, I was his arch-enemy. Trips to the backyard were always done with trepidation—and one eye on him. If I turned my back for a second, he’d be at my ankles, flogging my shins with his wings and spurs. More than once he drew blood. I often carried a pitchfork for protection.

However, he loved his girls. But: When you hear stories of daring roosters taking on a fox or a hawk in service of protecting the girls, don’t think of Daddy. That guy was a jerk to me only. When a bobcat started taking hens, Daddy was the first to run to safety, screaming “every chicken for themselves!!!”

He did, however, leave his stamp firmly on our flock. We have many a blonde chicken running around thanks to his genes.

And he did provide us with entertainment. Chris, my ex-husband, found endless humor in Daddy’s vendetta against me. (Daddy never really bothered anyone else. He specifically hated me.) I found humor in his clucks of (feigned) delight, when he’d pretend he’d found something good to eat (usually a rock) and then mated with the poor, gullible hens that would come running to see what he’d found.

He woke us up every morning without fail. And then kept on crowing all day, every day, because this world is glorious and you should shout about it.

But, last winter, I noticed that Daddy was losing his edge. He no longer called the girls over to check out the cool food (rock) he’d found. His attacks on my shins were half-hearted. A younger rooster was running him off from the feeders. When he came close enough to me to eat out of my hand, I knew he must really be struggling to get enough to eat. It was time to think about moving Daddy to a retirement home.

For the last six or so months, he’s lived with a hen in a rolling coop out in my pasture. He’s had no other roosters to compete with, and all the food, water, grass, and bugs his heart desired. Did I resent having to go out and move the coop around the field every day for a rooster I’m not particularly fond of? Absolutely. Still: He served us well(ish), and it felt like the only honorable way to retire him.

Daddy, I hope wherever you are, there are hens galore and no lady chicken keepers to keep you always looking over your shoulder. May there be many mealworms and the most luscious of dirt baths. Thanks for all the early morning wake-ups and the shin bruises. You truly kept me on my toes, old boy.

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Here’s What I Loved This Week

Todd and I got out for a paddle at Pickett State Park. I moved to Tennessee to be close to Big South Fork National River and Recreation Area, a national park in my backyard. But this state park is also right down the road and just as spectacular. How lucky am I to have this gorgeousness nearby?