D e s e r t E x p o s u r e
March 2010
Return to Funky Butte Ranch
The author of Farewell, My Subaru and his readers debate: Six strikes and you're out — to kill (he means "harvest") or not to harvest an incorrigible rooster.
By Doug Fine
Editor's note: When Mimbres rancher Doug Fine published his now-bestselling Farewell, My Subaru two years ago this month, Desert Exposure was among the first publications to predict that Fine's humorous-yet-literary account of a regular guy deciding to live sustainably (or die trying) would have reverberations far beyond Southwest New Mexico ("Green Acres," March 2008).
One "Tonight Show" appearance and scores of glowing reviews later, Farewell, My Subaru has been translated into Chinese and Korean, and brought Fine speaking invitations from as far as Taiwan and New Zealand. But for readers of Fine's "Dispatches From the Funky Butte Ranch" blog (www.dougfine.com) the "carbon-neutral misadventures" never end. A combination of philosophical, spiritual, useful and side-splittingly-funny, Fine's "Dispatches" have drawn more than 100,000 unique visitors since Farewell, My Subaru's initial publication.
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Hank, the rooster
whose fate was at stake. |
On the two-year anniversary of Farewell, My Subaru's appearance on bookstore shelves (and Kindle readers), we're delighted to print a favorite Dispatch from the Southwest's now-best-known sustainability author. And yes, the author tells us there are more books forthcoming from Fine's solar-powered keyboard.
Because the blog is such an interactive experience (regular visitors continually notice how many people Fine has induced to begin sustainable living themselves), we've also included the 35 reader comments on the Dispatch, many of which are funny in their own right. Fine is clearly a writer who is one of us. And he has to be: We're all in this planet-saving, local-living thing together, he says. As Fine (who comments online as "OrgoCowboy") puts it in the sign-offs to his emails, "Carbon-neutral or bust, everyone."
The Funky Butte Ranch rooster wasn't even supposed to be here. He was accidentally mailed live in a perforated box at age One Day by a catalogue chick-breeding company that I paid extra to send only pullets (females). There's no panicky call from the Postmistress like a "you have a box of live chickens here!" panicky call from the Postmistress. At first, I thought the gender mix-up was a fortuitous mistake — many chicken ranchers believe that hens produce more and healthier eggs when there's a male around the coop.
Indeed, "Hank" (not his real name) spent his initial year as a perfectly chivalrous and absolutely serene guardian to my 25 hens (in sync with the Ranch ecosystem, he is one of the few roosters in history who prefers to sleep in, so he rarely wakes me before dawn with egotistical crowing). He'd feed his girlfriends the choicest bugs and shoots, and let them hit the compost first.
In addition, the multi-chromatic Americauna is at least partly responsible for the fact that I have not had a single coyote depredation since his accidental arrival (readers of Farewell, My Subaru will know that I had too many avian casualties in earlier times thanks to a coyote I named "Dick Cheney," for his unauthorized surveillance of the Ranch). In short, I was pleased with Hank — he was like a walk-on quarterback who earned the starting job. Then, about six months ago, he suddenly became homicidally violent.
In the most brutal incident, Hank nearly pecked the eye out of one of my drakes (male ducks), who was lounging around plastic pool-side and minding his own business (the duck recovered). More regularly, he's started ripping feathers out of the chickens in his harem. There's no call for this kind of behavior. Or maybe it's that, since a good part of his daily responsibility involves making love to every chicken he sees without any competition, Hank's incorrigibility just goes to show that anything can stop being fun if it's your job. The ducks mean him no harm, and the hens appeared to be fine with his earlier, more-respectful courtship. They sure produce an artery-clogging number of eggs. So Hank's nasty personality turn seems all the more uncalled-for.
Now, in the four additional bird square-offs that I've witnessed, he inflates his shoulder-length, golden mane feathers peacock-like into an eerily gravity-defying circle, and starts wreaking havoc on all avian comers with bee-line attacks and savage beak rips (he remains docile in my presence, by the way, which is very, very wise). This aggressiveness is particularly unfair in the case of ducks, whose bills lack offensive firepower. It's like bombing Bhutan.
So I don't know how to put it more delicately: Since I've given Hank three chances and then three more, should I well, shouldn't I eat him? This is not part of the Funky Butte Ranch protein plan. My strategy for meat, which I am increasingly coming to believe that my blood type demands (just once or twice per week), is a sustainable harvest of one elk per year from my ecosystem — believe me, that's more than enough for my needs.
I definitely don't require his meat. But there's more to the story. Hank and all the fowl are members of the Funky Butte Ranch family. My toddler loves the birds. I mean, take it from me: one doesn't name future meals. That is to say, I'm not the kind of guy who looks at a chicken and sees a six piece Val-U-Meal, the way the canine Dick Cheney did (and who can blame him? He was eating locally, and walking to work). I think a longer-term benefit is a happy flock giving tons of eggs for years. But when is enough enough?
Regardless of Hank's fate, the Felonious Rooster Dilemma is causing me to give heavy thought to the whole penitentiary system. The new-and-improved Funky Butte Ranch chicken coop, which is the only maximum security lockdown on the property, is designed to keep coyotes OUT, not chickens IN, and that's where Hank's victims live. So I'm beginning to think it's either the death sentence or complete coddling for the foul fowl.
In closing this Dispatch, I can't help but feel that mine is a modern Sensitive Age dilemma. I don't want to call it soft or otherwise diminish its importance — working through moral dilemmas is what I do the way some people play chess, or really believe in politicians. Still, I'm giving a lot of thought to the hopes and aspirations of a creature most people eat in the form of "Six Piece Nuggets."
I think of Renee Zellweger's earthy Ruby Thewes' line to Nicole Kidman's rich-girl Asa Monroe character in the terrific film version of the even more terrific Civil War-era Cold Mountain novel: "I hate uppity chickens," Ruby remarks, upon manually decapitating the bird that has been terrifying Ada for months — she solved the problem without guilt within a minute of arrival on the scene. Now, I don't think I'm going to make this important decision based on a vote (or a movie), but I'm definitely interested in opinions. Until then, I'm at least a part-time avian cage fighting referee. Can I put that under "occupation" on my tax return?
Responses:
March 7, 10:47 p.m.
Walter:
You don't have to eat him (although I would, you don't want to be one of those people that order a huge meal and then not eat half). I would place him on the other side of the fence, let him survive for himself. You might be surprised how long he lasts. Just remember if another animal eats him, he didn't go to waste.
March 7, 11:17 p.m.
Annika:
I grew up with chickens so I say kill the damn thing. Though I do hold fast to my belief that nothing is more delicious than a fertilized chicken egg.
March 8, 8:07 a.m.
OrgoCowboy [Doug Fine]:
Walter, I don't think putting him outside will work, because all the chickens and ducks are outside during the day. Not that I didn't consider this — it would work at night, but the birds are so diurnal that Hank isn't even a threat past dusk. It's like his mojo fades into fear, or at least sleepiness.
March 8, 8:53 a.m.
Jenny:
What's that old saying? oh yeah, if you can't beat 'em, eat 'em!
March 9, 6:08 a.m.
Jen:
I remember hearing about attack roosters (on the hens) from Temple Grandin in her book, Animals in Translation. Apparently, when animals are bred for single traits, other wacky things can happen. She recounts a story of a rooster that suddenly started attacking and killing the hens. She worked it out that the genetic changes made for the single trait also affected the courtship rituals between roosters and hens and disrupted the normal course of things, thereby causing the roosters to go crazy. I know this doesn't solve your problem (I don't think she offered solutions, other than to be wary of stocks bred for single traits), but maybe gives some background.
March 9, 8:52 a.m.
OrgoCowboy:
That IS helpful, Jen, because Hank the rooster was the "free, bonus exotic" chicken they send with every order. If they can't get the gender right, who knows what else might go wrong? I'm generally a fan of selective, Gregor Mendel-style breeding, as opposed to modifying genes in a test tube, but in-breeding is another story (can you say, "Shar Pei"?). Hopefully Hank is just going through a phase, and not, so to speak, a bad egg.
March 9, 1:13 p.m.
Katha Sheehan:
Power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely! (It also makes creatures vain, lazy and cruel for sport.) This is one of the themes of my novel, Tales of an Island Rooster. (Other themes include young love and betrayal.) What your guy needs is a worthy rival (obviously the ducks are not up to it). If you can't "stomach" another rooster, try a turkey or peacock or Guinea. Just be sure it is something with the spirit to fight back. (I have some pugnacious bantam roosters that would put him in his place!)
March 9, 3:42 p.m.
Will:
Grandmama always said that roosters get to a point where they just "go bad" mostly, and then it's time for chicken and dumplings. Get Annika's recipe for the dumplings.
March 9, 7:49 p.m.
Mike from Georgia:
My parents partook of the back-to-nature movement in the 70s, and we were terrorized by "Neil," the attack rooster. He never pestered the hens, but a seven-year-old (me) was a suitable target. Unfortunately for Neil, the local red fox population settled the dilemma before we found a solution. No one was sad, as I recall. Decades later, my wife and I have our own small farm and are about to get our first chickens. I am seriously considering going the "hens-only" route.
March 10, 5:51 a.m.
Joshua:
How about eating him after you have let your hens hatch off some of those fertilized eggs, undoubtedly giving you a new rooster in the mix?
March 10, 8:15 a.m.
OrgoCowboy:
Will — All I can say is "Yum." Well, that and, "wait, for that I have to kill my rooster."
Joshua — That's a fine and hopeful suggestion. We'll see if any of the hens "brood" (sit on a nest to hatch) this spring.
March 12, 9:09 a.m.
Jules:
I like Joshua's and Walter's suggestions. As much as I LOVE chicken and dumplings (and have an awesome, awesome recipe if you want it) I'd wait until one of the hens is brooding, then I'd take Hank for a little ride in the R.O.A.T. [Note: this is Doug Fine's famous vegetable oil-powered "Ridiculously Oversized American Truck," documented in Farewell, My Subaru] and leave him as a snack for the wild beasties. Or, barter him to a neighbor who won't have a problem roasting him for dinner.
March 13, 2:10 a.m.
Graham:
Do you have any friends who don't want eggs from a hen, but do want a rooster to keep the tick population down? If so, problem solved. If not, dumplings.
March 13, 7:48 a.m.
John:
Remember that chickens are social creatures. Sending him off alone would be pretty cruel.
March 13,1:53 p.m.
OrgoCowboy:
Wow, Graham, a tick-reducer. Never thought of it. And good point, John — I mean, a lot depends on how much human emotion (or how much of the Golden Rule) one wants to impart to an "animal." I wouldn't want to be abandoned in the wilderness to be eaten. Though I wouldn't want to be decapitated, either. But then I'm not assaulting ducks in the first degree. Except on Sundays. No, no.
Meanwhile, folks might be interested to know that since I posted this Dispatch, "Hank" has been perfectly well-behaved. Perhaps he gets the RSS feed to these Dispatches. I sure have no idea what goes on in that barn at night once I latch the door. They could be trading derivatives. [Author's note: A year after posting this Dispatch, Hank remains alive and behaving like an absolute gentleman. Meek even. We haven't had chick births since this Dispatch appeared, but we have had five ducklings join the Funky Butte Ranch — from the looks of them, the drake that Hank once tried to annihilate is the father. Whether there's a larger "there's hope for anyone's rehabilitation" message for prison wardens is perhaps beyond the scope of this discussion.]
March 13, 9:04 p.m.
Sharon:
No dissing the Shar Pei!
March 14, 2:16 p.m.
Jules:
Glad to hear Hank is behaving. I guess if it comes down to it, a quick decapitation would be more humane than abandoned and attacked by wild animals.
March 15,1:28 a.m.
Shane:
An ornery rooster begets more ornery roosters. From my limited understanding of chickens, if you let Hank make an heir, the new rooster will likely be very similar to Hank.
If he keeps attacking animals, cull him from the flock and have some rooster stew.
March 16, 12:45 a.m.
Arlo Petersen:
Wow! An article about the Lehman Brothers [Note: Doug's previous Dispatch concerned a repentant derivatives trader who wanted to come work on the Funky Butte Ranch] only garnered three comments and one about mayhem and decapitation has generated 20 and counting.
I thought that there would have been more discussion about leaving the Lehman Brothers out for the foxes and scavengers to clean up, but on the whole you have a very respectful bunch of readers.
Don't forget that if you render the rooster, the fat goes into the truck.
March 16, 7:58 a.m.
OrgoCowboy:
Arlo, you sure packed a lot of cogent comments in one post — I, too, noticed anti-social roosters proved more comment-inspiring than an anti-social banking system. And any oil from cooking, particularly, does wind up in the vehicle.
March 17, 11:21 p.m.
Bobbi:
I especially like the part where Ruby in Cold Mountain looks at Ada after she wrings the rooster's neck and says, "Let's put him in a pot."
As for me, I'd like to have the fortitude to do this, but, fact is, I have never been hungry enough to kill my own meat (or desperate to end farmyard violence). I'd like to hear how you handle it though. Good luck!
March 24, 1:09 p.m.
Jim:
Maybe you can use this experience for the betterment of mankind.
April 4, 9:44 a.m.
Thea:
Roosters and young children don't mix well; keep a vigilant eye out. I have some unruly turkey toms at the moment! A friend said to me, when he was a child, the "bad" roosters were caught at the start of the chores and carried around upside-down by the legs for 5, 10, 15 minutes until the chores were done and then released. After a few trips to the upside-down ride, the roosters calmed down considerably. Now my tom (one bad one) is a bit heavier than a rooster, but it seems to be working after two times and a defensive dog. If you do cook the thing, make sure to slow cook the cock, they do get tough.
April 5, 8:10 p.m.
Sylvie:
Doug, I feel your pain. You risk further pain if you sacrifice Hank and then grow to regret taking his life for no good reason. He is, after all, doing what roosters are programmed to do. But your flock of hens doesn't need stud service so why not put HIM (along with your Subaru) on Craigslist, or better yet, give him to a neighbor. This is a pain-free solution all around.
April 14, 11:55 p.m.
Ladybug:
Roosters usually turn into pricks when they get older, as you have seen. It's gonna get worse so OFF WITH HIS HEAD!
I adore hens but don't much like roosters. They are mean, nasty animals and bully any animal they possibly can. WHO NEEDS THAT, I ASK?? Certainly not you or your animals:-)
Peace and good luck.
May 24, 3:53 p.m.
Perry:
It is a fallacy that all roosters are equally aggressive. Just like dogs, different breeds have different temperaments, and as stupid as chickens are, they do have personalities.
You need to kill Hank and replace him with a more docile breed such as a Silkie or a Plymouth Rock.
One approach might be to get two rooster chicks, and then eat the Alpha male before he gets too old and tough. You want a Beta male or one who is too busy fulfilling his "purpose" to go around making trouble.
August 6, 1:22 p.m.
Kevin:
One rooster is never enough. They need to take out their aggression on each other, not on the hens. Craigslist always has people getting rid of full-grown birds. Pick up a pair of adult roosters to add to the flock and you will fine.
August 19, 12:51 p.m.
Adrienne:
I agree, 25 chickens is too big of a flock for one rooster to protect. He is probably in panic attack mode and feeling overwhelmed and underappreciated. Add another roo or two and after the pecking order is established, I wouldn't be surprised if things get much mellower.
August 25, 1:56 a.m.
John:
Men have always been known for their chivalry. If they are treated well by women, they get treated better in return. If women want to be taken good care of by their men, they need to respect and treat their men with dignity.
August 27, 1:54 p.m.
Barb Sawyer:
Does anybody know what breed of rooster he is, because I have one that looks just like him and he's the sweetest rooster I've ever had. But he's pushing 12, and I'd like to find another just like him!
August 29, 7:51 a.m.
OrgoCowboy:
Barb — I wish I knew, and as I mentioned in the Dispatch, he was sent unintended and unidentified by the "chick" company.
Sept. 6, 11 p.m.
Janice:
I believe your rooster is an Americauna. I got my 12 pullets (day old) in April: two girls of six varieties (we call them our yard art because they are so many beautiful colors). Anyway, about two months later, while lying in bed, I heard a distinct, but croaky crowing twice. Sure enough, our pullet, Claire, turned out to be our rooster, Clarence. He looks exactly like yours.
Sept. 7, 9:41 p.m.
Susie:
Why is it roosters have such mean little souls? I remember at about 2 1/2 years of age being flogged by a rooster. I was running in circles with the thing on my back beating me with his wings. I remember my mama slamming him with a broom, and I remember her frying him up for dinner. That was 50-plus years ago, and I still remember the terror he instilled and the pain he inflicted.
Oct. 15, 7:41 p.m.
Peter Quintin:
Just had four roosters prepped for dinner. The first one was very good and much better behaved than he was in life. We subbed out the task of converting them from nasty birds to a nice dinner. It is not a very pleasant task and is best avoided if possible.
Doug Fine's "Dispatches From the Funky Butte Ranch"
can be experienced at www.dougfine.com