Many people who keep chickens choose not to have a rooster. Although handsome, they are loud, crowing all day, not just at dawn like some suppose. They can be aggressive with other animals and even with their human caregivers. An attack by a rooster is no joke, either. They have sharp spurs on their legs and are fearless and fierce. Someone I know had a spur pierce deeply into her skin, and her bone became infected. She narrowly dodged surgery to repair the damage.
But having a good rooster is a beautiful thing. A proper rooster tolerates humans, keeps his hens in a safe group as they forage about, finds food and calls them to it with a sweet song, and protects them from predators. This week I heard a hawk repeatedly calling overhead. It was circling the farmlette, its haunting song piercing the still afternoon. Stan the Man heard it. He saw it, too, and made some sound that caused his ladies to dash for shelter under the ramp to Billy Goat Bridge. He pushed them deep into the shade, safely under cover. He put himself under, too, with just his head peering out, one bright eye tilted skyward.
After the hawk had moved on, the hens gradually ventured out from safety. Still cautious, Stan the Man led them up an embankment where they were under cover of some overhanging branches. I watched all this in admiration. A good rooster earns his keep.
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