Bad Bird

say a prayer for the ruler of the roost

It rained hard from Friday night until late Sunday afternoon. A pounding, heavy rain that the earth greedily drank up until it was soaked full and muddy. April asked me Friday night if we were still going to try and chip the huge woodpile, something about the moisture affecting the gears in the chipper and whether or not wet wood would chip properly. Earlier in the week she had expressed concern that our unborn daughter's ears might be harmed by the high decibels from chipping wood for 6 hours. To this husband's trained ear, these comments sounded like I might be doing a good deal of chipping by myself this year. No matter, I assured her, a few sprinkles couldn't stop us from transforming the big pile of limbs and sticks into mulch. As we laid to rest that night and I set our alarm for 7am Saturday morning, I secretly cursed the wood for making me get up early a 6th time this week. Way too early on Saturday morning, we made a pit stop at Hardee's for their breakfast platter which came with a fluffy biscuit, a big gulp sized cup of sausage gravy, a pittance of eggs and disappointingly, a single slice of bacon. A dude behind us was berating his chubby little daughter for not putting a lid on her breakfast soda and finding fault with her choice of booths. The combination of his asshattery and the lack of bacon made my desire to punch him in the face nearly irresistible. The rain was falling harder as we got in my truck and headed over to Valley Rentals. I recognized the traffic cone orange Bandit XL woodchipper we had rented last year sitting in the parking lot, just waiting to dig its massive mechanical jaws into our stack of sticks. Not another soul was in the parking lot which is unusual at a place that rents manly machinery on a Saturday morning in Caldwell County. The guy at the counter looked amazed that anyone had bothered showing up, reservations or not. He asked if we were sure we wanted to rent the Bandit since the rain tends to affect the gears in the chipping apparatus and wet wood doesn't chip properly anyways. April 1, Jon 0.

I had other things I wanted to get done, so we swung by Lowe's to get some grass seed and a spreader. When we got back home and I read the fine print on the 40lb bag of fescue seed more carefully; I realized the current 40 degree temperature was a bit lower than the 60-80 degree range it said was optimal for germination. Still not discouraged enough to do what a sensible man would have done in the downpour, start a fire and curl up with a book on the couch; I loaded more of the crap the previous residents of this house had left in the basement into my truck and made another trip to the dump.

The rain showed no sign of letting up Sunday morning and my plans for a productive weekend were melting away like the chicken poop on our stoop. We made smoothies with frozen fruit and yogurt for milady, vanilla ice cream for me. I had brought our Roomba robotic vacuum out of storage on Saturday and plugged it in to recharge. Now, I was ready to suck up the tumbleweeds of shed dog hair rolling around the house and for the free entertainment that watching a robot vacuum tormenting our dogs would provide. Rainy days bring out the best in me. After the Roomba depleted his batteries and returned to its dock to recharge, I made an attempt to bake a loaf of whole wheat sourdough bread which ended up more like a dense dark brown brick of fiber despite the copious amounts of gluten I added. By late in the afternoon, I thought I saw the sun trying to break through the clouds and felt like I should let the dogs and the chickens out to enjoy what glorious muddy freedom the waning weekend could offer. Just before sunset, I heard a terrible squawking outside, grabbed the .22 Ruger and went to investigate. A quick headcount came up one short of our current flock of 12 birds, and I knew right away who it was. Our huge, ornery rooster: Bad Bird.

When he was a chick and later a cockerel, Bad Bird was known by a different name. I called him Little Wing; both because he was so much smaller than all the girls and in honor of one of my favorite Hendrix songs. One time he went missing overnight and I remember praying so hard that a snake or owl had not gotten him. After worrying me sick and using up any favors I might have accrued with the guy upstairs; Little Wing emerged from underneath the chicken coop unscathed and hungry. He never was much into being held but I scooped him up and cradled him tight. I felt a wave of relief wash over me as I gave thanks, that sickness and worry just washed away. As he grew older, he soon towered over the hens and was spending most of his time pecking at their necks and trying to make chicken babies by standing on their backs and ruffling his feathers. I don't think he ever really worked out the mechanics of chicken mating, but it was not due to a lack of effort on his part. At some point he started to turn ornery and began chasing April around the farm flapping his wings and trying to leap on her back. I guess he still respected my authority somewhat since he wasn't trying that stuff on me or maybe he just didn't find me attractive. It got so bad April started refusing to refill the water in the chicken coop and she carried a big stick with her anytime she was outside with Bad Bird on the loose. She told me she could see Bad Bird giving her the stink eye whether we were outside pruning trees, inside doing the dishes or just reading on the porch. I though she was crazy at first, but I did start to notice that wherever she went Bad Bird would follow. At a respectful distance if I was around, at stalker like proximity if I was too far away to be a clear and present danger to him. One day, when I was taking out the trash, I felt a stabbing pain in the back of my calf. It was Bad Bird making his move to usurp my position as top cock. A hastily aimed Sam's Club sized bottle of laundry detergent soon solved his delusions of grandeur but I knew I had to do something before things really got out of hand. Google led me to some strategies for getting inside the mind of the chicken which mostly involved doling out large quantities of chicken treats to keep the rooster distracted from attacking you. April's strategy of walking softly and carrying a big stick seemed to be working out pretty well for her, a few lovetaps from her staff of protection had reduced Bad Bird's desire to stand on her back. But that crazed look in his eyes has never gone away. He reminds me of Cobra Commander, bent on world domination yet destined for disappointment.

I found an explosion of white feathers that trailed off into the woods and felt the familiar sickness in my gut. The birds had only been out of the coop for an hour or so, the dogs were supposed to be guarding the flock, but I knew I had failed them once again. I followed the trail of Bad Bird's white and green plumage deeper and deeper into the woods. My slippers sucked in the mud and thorns and brambles grasped and tore at my pajama pants. Clyde found him laying in a heap; taking shallow, ragged breaths. I had the gun and my first thought was to put him down, to end his suffering. I gathered him up in my arms and carried him back towards the house. April was in the shower and the bathroom full of humid steam. I told her something had gotten to Big Bird as I sat down on the toilet cradling his bulk in his arms. I started to pick the muddy clumps of leaves out of his feathers and watched him gasping for air through his gaping beak. I was amazed to find no blood or large wounds. I prayed silently that he wouldn't die from whatever fiend had drug him so deep into the dark woods. Night was falling and I knew I was lucky to have found him before the darkness had hidden him away until morning. I doubt he would have lasted that long in the cold in his condition. April was out of the shower now, drying off and watching her nemesis cautiously, with a tender look in her eyes. I stroked his neck, trying to warm him and willing his heart to slow its racing pace. His eyes were clear and open, his stare nearly reptilian. Something told me to set him down and see if he could stand on his own. He settled, rose slowly into position and dropped a massive chicken gift on the edge of our bathroom rug. I cleaned up his mess, saw him take a few tentative steps and gathered him back into my arms. He looked much better than when I had found him in the woods. I decided to carry him back out to the coop so that he might live or die in good company; surrounded by his harem of hens. I checked on him in the morning and he looked about the same, still shaky on his feet. When I got home from work and let the girls out for their twilight free-range forage, he stayed huddled in a corner of the coop. I tried taking him outside to join the hens but he was having none of that. He has strength enough to hop back into the coop and return to his corner, settling back into an awkward heap. I brought him some fresh water which he greedily guzzled down, though he wouldn't eat a bite of the wheat bread. Bad Bird is usually a big fan of my baked goods. It was getting really cold and I decided to move him to the other side of the coop and set him up in his own space in a steel water trough with fresh wood shavings and a heat lamp. Tuesday morning he looked about the same but I noticed he had eaten some of the food I had left him. By that evening, he was back to looking sturdy on his feet and a lot more of the chicken feed was gone so I returned him to the other side of the coop. We prayed for him before dinner and I will again before I fall asleep. They say you should never name a chicken. Especially a rooster with a bad attitude who doesn't even know how to make me some more chickens. I guess seeing the vulnerable side of anything so ornery is bound to help you come to a new understanding of it. Just like with Clyde the blue heeler, it's funny how the Bad ones do seem to find a special place in your heart.