Death Of The Douchy Rooster

“Mr. Big” was what we called our Welsomer rooster. He was huge, spectacularly beautiful and vicious. Every now and then he would take a breather from banging the poor hens, escape from the pen, and terrorize whoever  happened to be outside.

If you haven’t spent much time around roosters, you should know that they have  spurs on the back of their legs, about an inch and a half long and sharp as a knife. Roosters will  fly up at you and run the spike down your leg if they have a mind to.

I hated our rooster.

Hens do not require roosters to lay eggs. Our hens will generously lay them without enduring the amorous attentions of the insatiable brute. The reason we kept the Douchy Rooster around was because we thought he would protect the flock from predators, yet, it seemed to me that whenever a hawk made a dive, the rooster was the first one to hide and the last one to reemerge.

After a few unpleasant encounters with the Douchy Rooster involving my red patent leather clogs, and a garden rake, which taught the rooster nothing, I vowed that if he  ever came after me again while I was alone I would smite him.

Today, when I arrived home, the feathery terrorist was out of the pen and in the driveway. My Royal Consort was not at home, and I was in my car, unarmed. Not only was I unarmed, I was basically naked because I had just come back from the beach and only had on a bikini. I thought I could sneak out of the car and put on some pants before engaging the rooster, but when I opened my door, he spotted me and charged over. I slammed the door shut just as he hurled himself at the side of the car.

Thinking I could slip in the front door of our house, I drove over the grass toward the front of the house, but the rooster  actually chased the car. Realizing there was no way I was going to be able to outrun him, I decided to turn the tables and chase him with the car.

We took a lap or two around the driveway circle with me in hot pursuit before the rooster realized that he could cut through the circle garden and chase me. I decided that the time had come to make good on my vow to kill the big bully, so I stepped on the gas and roared around the circle to face him head on.

Now that I had a solid plan, we faced off several times in the driveway circle, with the rooster charging me, and me flooring the car at the rooster. Each time he won a round, he would let out a triumphant crow, which made me feel even more murderous. Despite the fact that he had the confidence and grace of a young Mohammed Ali,  I did finally hit him.

When I skidded to a halt in a triumphant spray of gravel and feathers after hearing that satisfying and somewhat horrifying thump, the rooster was lying down in the driveway. I wanted to be sure he was completely dead before I dared approach him unarmed, so I ran to the barn in search of an axe.  Instead of an axe, I finally found a long scrap of marble, which I thought I could use to smack the rooster if he sassed me.

When I got back to the crime scene, the rooster had risen like a phoenix and made his way over to the chicken coop. Well armed with my long slab of marble, but still inadequately attired for cockfighting, I realized I needed backup, so I got back in the car and started looking through my phone for someone who might be so kind as to come over at a moment’s notice and shoot a half dead rooster.

The logical man for the job was my cousin McN, but he was stuck at home waiting for a lumber delivery. Another friend had thrown his gun away because he was scared of his own temper, and my third friend was in a meeting.

Concerned that I might be trapped in my car indefinitely,  I finally came across C (filed under “M”), a good friend of Oldest’s and Youngest’s. Remembering that his family kept chickens, I thought the odds of him owning a .22 were pretty good.

Bless his heart, C did have a gun and graciously agreed to come right over. The scope was messed up and C wears glasses, so the first shot only got the rooster riled up and made him start running around like a chicken with his head still on. I tried to look intimidating with the rake while C reloaded the gun. The final shot at close range, did the job. C warned me that chickens keep moving for a good minute or two after they are dead, which was creepy and weird.

Coincidentally, our brother-in-law, Al, who is an avid fisherman, had just told us a few days before how rooster hackles are prized by fly fishermen. It was easier than I would have guessed to pluck a chicken.

Al made these two lures from the Douchy Rooster’s hackles. The one on the left is “The Deceiver” and the one on the right is “The Whistler”.

My phone which seldom rings, started ringing off the hook as I busied myself with the plucking featherss for Al. Normally, when I am doing something interesting like plucking a chicken, I just let the phone  ring, but I was so wound up with blood lust that I couldn’t resist answering it. “Can you hold on a sec?” I would ask. “I just need to spit out some feathers.”


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  1. Plucky's Tale | The Flip Side says:

    […] Related: Death of the Douchey Rooster […]

  2. Guns don't kill people, women do | The Flip Side says:

    […] into a gun store. Then, last sum­mer, I found myself in des­per­ate need of a gun when I had to bat­tle our vicious rooster with a Toyota Corolla while clad in a bikini. The bat­tle was even­tu­ally won with the help of a guy friend and his gun, but it was messy, […]

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