- Aug 3, 2012
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Buck was an accident. We asked for all females from the breeder, but sexing isn’t 100% accurate. Wife said kill him now, but I felt sorry for how badly the pullets were treating him. He wouldn’t leave the roost, so I brought him food and water.
I thought we were becoming bros. One day I picked him up and carried him around the yard. I can’t remember why, but I do remember blowing a gnat away from my cheek and the puff of air hitting Buck in the face. He bit me on the lip so hard it split it open. Blood was streaming down my chin. The bromance was officially over.
Wife said to kill him. He had blossomed into a very handsome rooster, with his speckled Sussex-like breast feathers, tall, arching iridescent black-emerald sickle feathers, and blonde/tan saddle and hackle feathers. I couldn’t kill him. I decided it was like having a pet tiger that could attack me at any moment, but was worth having because of its beauty.
It took Buck a year to go from flogging me any time I went inside the run to tolerating my presence as long as I maintained eye contact and moved slowly. The arrangement lasted about five more years, although something about my shins triggered him if I walked too close the the run. He’d sometimes flog at my legs through the fencing and get stuck upside-down when a spur got caught. Oh Buck! Look what you’ve gotten yourself into.
The day came when I could no longer keep him. I’ve got 18 pullets outgrowing their brooder pen, and I had to kill him and put his five granny hens in with my two light Sussex young hens, a light Sussex young roo, and my emotional support FBCM roo, Mattie.
I hated that I had no other options. He was five or six years old, had a bad leg, 3” spurs, and a mean temperament. He did his job well, though. I remember last year a grey hawk got into the run and killed a brand new egg layer. I came around the corner just in time to see him flogging the hawk and it flapping a hasty retreat vertically through the hole in the netting.
I debated internally about how and when I had to do the deed. I decided that he’d have until the new chicks were ready to be moved into his run. That was yesterday. I did the cervical dislocation technique using a shovel handle. It was instantaneous death. I buried him next to the garden along with our other pets—cats and dogs from the past 27 years. I buried him upright in a proud, standing position, which is how I’ll remember him. Can’t believe I’m getting choked up just now.
Mean SOB.
I thought we were becoming bros. One day I picked him up and carried him around the yard. I can’t remember why, but I do remember blowing a gnat away from my cheek and the puff of air hitting Buck in the face. He bit me on the lip so hard it split it open. Blood was streaming down my chin. The bromance was officially over.
Wife said to kill him. He had blossomed into a very handsome rooster, with his speckled Sussex-like breast feathers, tall, arching iridescent black-emerald sickle feathers, and blonde/tan saddle and hackle feathers. I couldn’t kill him. I decided it was like having a pet tiger that could attack me at any moment, but was worth having because of its beauty.
It took Buck a year to go from flogging me any time I went inside the run to tolerating my presence as long as I maintained eye contact and moved slowly. The arrangement lasted about five more years, although something about my shins triggered him if I walked too close the the run. He’d sometimes flog at my legs through the fencing and get stuck upside-down when a spur got caught. Oh Buck! Look what you’ve gotten yourself into.
The day came when I could no longer keep him. I’ve got 18 pullets outgrowing their brooder pen, and I had to kill him and put his five granny hens in with my two light Sussex young hens, a light Sussex young roo, and my emotional support FBCM roo, Mattie.
I hated that I had no other options. He was five or six years old, had a bad leg, 3” spurs, and a mean temperament. He did his job well, though. I remember last year a grey hawk got into the run and killed a brand new egg layer. I came around the corner just in time to see him flogging the hawk and it flapping a hasty retreat vertically through the hole in the netting.
I debated internally about how and when I had to do the deed. I decided that he’d have until the new chicks were ready to be moved into his run. That was yesterday. I did the cervical dislocation technique using a shovel handle. It was instantaneous death. I buried him next to the garden along with our other pets—cats and dogs from the past 27 years. I buried him upright in a proud, standing position, which is how I’ll remember him. Can’t believe I’m getting choked up just now.
Mean SOB.
