Rocky's Revenge

Just as I was beginning to think suburban cockerel ownership might be possible, a spanner was thrown well and truly in the works. I awoke at 6am to Rocky giving a splendid solo performance. As did the rest of the family. Curiously, he could barely be heard outside of our walls, but the bizarre acoustics of our integrated garage meant that he came at us in stereo. After a week of toing and froing about the plucky youngster, I decided with not a little regret that he had to go back from whence he came.

Decision made, I contacted the breeder and arranged to take him back this afternoon. I let him out with his harem for a few hours and watched the trio moving about the garden and annoying the sunbathing pekins sadly. But finally the time came. Fishing out the cat carrier, operation Return Rocky began.

I say 'operation' because what should have been a fairly straightforward procedure turned in to quite an epic. It should have gone a) open cat carrier, b) pick up cockerel, c) place cockerel in carrier, d) close carrier. It didn't go that way. For a start, he can fly quite well. Well enough to escape my clutches and fling himself in to the pile of crap currently occupying my garage. So for a good ten minutes I played a nerve wracking game of jenga, where the object was not to pull things out and keep a cohesive whole, but to not flatten the hiding boy chicken. After a lot of swearing, several heart stopping moments where I suspected I had squashed him and one severe shin gouging, the little sod gave himself away by chuntering on the step behind me. Oh yes, Rocky had found his way out of the pile of teetering crap undetected, and had spent some time watching the funny human injure herself.

At this point, the ever tolerant husband wandered outside to find out what was keeping me. I roped him in to help and we spent at least fifteen minutes running laps around the garden with a jubilant Rocky easily zooming between our legs, flying over our heads and generally making us look like the clumsy mammals we are. We were certainly no match for the small yet perfectly formed powerhouse of speed watching us from the Palace roof. The pekins had come out in to the run to watch the show and were shouting encouragement. Such rabble rousers, pekins.

Finally I managed to herd him in to a corner. As I reached for him, he shot off again by running up my arm and down my back. I shrieked for the ever tolerant husband to grab him as he flew past. So fast was Rocky, the ever tolerant husband merely grabbed air, but in his haste to assist he managed to wrench his back. It took me a while to register that he was now clinging to the back wall of the house in a most unnatural pose. I only really spotted it as I dashed past the second or third time in pursuit of Road Runner. Asking him if he was alright seemed a bit pointless going by the look on his face and the interesting language he was using, so I settled for fetching him some pain killers. Now a man down, I reluctantly went to plan B. I gently herded the by now frantic young cockerel in to a corner, and swiftly grabbed him with the use of a towel. He shrieked like all the torments of Hades were upon him but didn't try to kill me, for which I was most grateful. I wouldn't have blamed him for wanting a fleshy souvenir.

The ever tolerant husband was by this time swearing less, but gurning more. More pain killers were found and ingested, and after a while we made the trip to return Rocky to his original home. When I arrived at the breeder's house, I put the carrier on the lawn and opened it. The plucky youngster was up and out of it quicker than I could blink, and leggesd it straight back to his old flock shrieking of the indignities that had befallen him.

I hope, unlike us, he isn't scarred by the experience.

The Terror Of Suburban Cockerel Keeping

So day 3 of owning a cockerel dawned quietly. It wasn't until the ever tolerant husband was brushing his teeth that Rocky decided to greet wednesday. As I listened to his muffled squeaks through the eldest's bedroom floor, I was quietly pleased with myself. You see, last night I covered the serama hutch with some old carpet, and I'd say it makes a considerable difference to the volume. Whether it deadens the sound enough so that no-one else can hear it remains to be seen. Indeed, as I stood outside the school this morning one of my neighbours from over the back approached me. I confess to breaking out in a cold sweat and thinking: this is it. Gulp. It was somewhat of an anti-climax when she asked me if I had any eggs spare. Anyway, this is Rocky crowing in the garden:



Such is my cockerel paranoia that I actually downloaded a decibel meter app for the ever tolerant husband's iPhone. I packed him off to work with my decidedly uncool mobile, and decided to try and measure Rocky's output, as it were. I spent an hour sat outside bundled up in many layers of clothing while he watched me with interest. As if he knew my intention, the little blighter stayed stubbornly silent until 2.30pm. However, I did get a reading. The background level was around 50 decibels, the dog barking over the back registered at 67 decibels, and Rocky's best effort was 80 decibels measured right next to him. I have no idea what this proves, so if anyone reading this can tell me that would be great.

After the school run, I decided to bite the bullet and let all of the chickens out together. The pekin ladies were happily munching a slice of toast (provided by me as a distraction tactic) when Rocky just strolled among them, cool as a breeze. It took a moment for this to sink in, and then Maude bit him on the arse. He shrieked a bit and ran over to round up his serama harem. Hilda and Gladys both gave chase, but a pekin's waddle is no match for a serama's road runner-esque gait. So, no surprises there really. Except this is the first time that Betsy and Vera have voluntarily stayed anywhere near the pekin hordes. And Rocky was very sweetly herding them away whenever a sly ASBO Chicken made out that she was just strolling towards them totally innocently. He even stole them some toast to munch on.




Interestingly, I observed both Mabel and Maude attempting a cockerel like dance towards the younger hens. They have never done this before, and I can only assume that it's a power display. It did look less than elegant, and the younger hens watched it all with a quizzical eye. Mabel gave up after a bit as if embarassed, but Maude got quite in to it.

Maybe they'll challenge Rocky to a dance off.

Rocky Makes His Presence Known

Well, here we are. Two days in to cockerel ownership. Rocky has well and truly arrived. He was utterly silent until 9.30 yesterday morning, when he gave forth a volley of squeaky crows which made sure that I couldn't deny his existence any longer. He was then thoughtfully silent until lunchtime, when he once again gave us his best solo performance for about a minute. After that, he seemed to lose interest and didn't open his beak again until 8am this morning, which was terribly inconvenient as the ever tolerant husband was on the drive at the time about to get in to his car. He, for his part, is remaining stoically silent about the whole thing.

The girls are not quite sure what to think. I've let them out in the mornings, and then returned them to the Palace grounds so that the serama can have some free ranging time without being eaten. They have borne this amazingly well. When Rocky crows, they watch him with interest. The young cockerel has no idea of the danger he could be in, and wanders up to the door of the Palace at regular intervals to chatter to the much larger girls. For now, they merely observe him, no doubt imagining a fajita or other chicken based wrap.

The serama ladies are very accepting on the whole. Yesterday, the plucky youngster attempted to woo Vera. He staggered to the left with his wing sweeping the ground, and then staggered to the left, all the while chuntering a song of seduction. Vera watched the whole performance while scoffing some grass and seemed less than impressed. In fact, she turned away from him and began to amble off. Misreading the signals, Rocky thought she was giving him the green light and attempted to climb aboard. Not a smart move. Vera turned on him like a chicken possessed. There was much hissing and hackle raising and a few open mouthed pecks. Dejected, Rocky sloped off to hide behind a plant pot and no doubt attempt to regain some dignity.

I wish I could relax and enjoy him, but I'm still waiting for the complaints to start rolling in.