Photo by AK

Homage to Duckhead

I’m distressed. And angry. Viscerally feeling a void upon ‘arriving home’ now that I’m no longer greeted by my sassy, opinionated friend.

No. As I sit here writing this, trying to capture what I really feel, I have to admit, ‘angry’ doesn’t cut it. What a lame word for the actual sense of outrage I’m feeling at the moment.

Duckhead, my neighbors’ gorgeously coifed Polish rooster, is gone.

He’d not even been with us a year. And I use ‘us’ euphemistically because he and his girls were my adopted chicks, with my occasional chicken-sitting bestowing upon me some sort of pseudo-status as ‘family’ (at least in my own mind and heart).

From Chick to Cock

Indeed, I feel I witnessed his coming into rooster-hood. On the first weekend that I chicken-sat, perhaps late spring/early summer, I could sort of tell which one was Duckhead, even though he didn’t look all that different from his girlfriends. But he did eke out a sort of garbled quarter-crow. It was more amusing than impressive; almost sad, actually. But we tried not to laugh. You could tell he meant it, and he had no role model, so we told him he was fearsome.

As the summer wore on, being next door neighbors, I could hear his maturity coming to fruition. I even complimented his human ‘mother’ on the fact that he was finally figuring out how to muster a passable crow. And even though he couldn’t technically see me when I backed my car into our driveway, it always seemed like he would greet me with a quick cockadoodle. And I’d often respond.

Let me assure you, everyone benefits from having an enthusiastic cock greeting them when they arrive home. It’s just, well, welcoming.

Early this fall, my neighbor warned me that he was getting a bit aggressive. So the next time I came over to release them from their sleeping quarters, clean out and fill their water, and make sure their feed was replenished, I needed to be careful. Ol’ Duckhead was starting to exhibit distinct symptoms of machismo.

Wow, she wasn’t kidding. Clearly, the hormones had kicked into overdrive. He was quick! And he meant business! And while he never managed to nail me with his rapier beak, he did make me jump and squeal out a couple of times.

Still, he would greet me when I pulled in the driveway. Although soon his voice just mingled in with the braying of my beloved donkeys residing on the hill behind our homes, as well as the various other critter noises emanating from the dozen or so sheep and handful of goats (ok – the couple of goats) who also shared pasture with the donkeys.

The Comfort of Country Sounds

Life was idyllic. Karl and I would even comment on – and laugh about – Duckhead’s vociferous masculinity. It was a welcome, lovely, country sound that we’d recently come to miss.

Our neighbors two houses away (on the opposite side of us from Duckhead’s parents) had had a much larger flock – and a couple of roosters over time – for many years. They’d recently sold their home after living in the neighborhood (if you can call five houses a neighborhood) for almost 40 years. I’d tangled with one of their roosters a couple of times. He’d half-strut, half-fly over to our back yard and try to wrangle up his chickens, who would enjoy flying the coop on a fairly regular basis.

But Duckhead, in his short life, never got the chance to round up his girls. His lovelies hadn’t escaped their sweet digs even once, as far as I could tell. Sadly, yet another adventure he’ll never get to experience.

Oh, Those Noisy Neighbors

My reason for being upset, as you have almost certainly figured out, are the neighbors on the other side of Duckhead’s home. The ones who moved in a few years ago from an urban setting and immediately erected signs on their lawn advertising their business. Even though those signs are offensive, we all hoped they were temporary. You know, just letting people know what the man did for a living. The four of us didn’t make a fuss. We wanted to be neighborly. We wouldn’t complain. (And ended up remaining quiet for far too long, obviously.)

Apparently, though, they’re light sleepers, and they just could not abide Duckhead’s natural inclinations. They complained to Duckhead’s parents, who searched out all sorts of remedies.

Alas, still feeling aggrieved, a few weeks later these people complained to the township. About Duckhead – a single, lone rooster. They actually lodged a formal complaint stating that he violated a noise ordinance (which was only recently enacted this year). And there was no investigation. No measurement of his decibels (really?). Just a nasty letter threatening action against Duckhead based upon the subjective complaint of these transplanted city-folk.

News flash: we live out in the country.

Duckhead’s parents were floored. They couldn’t believe this had escalated to a township matter. So much for being neighborly. Wanting to be amenable (we all have to pick our battles), they invested in a collar that they were told would stifle or at least muffle Duckhead’s manly declarations.

It worked – for a week or two. But one morning…

Yeah.

We’re all so incredibly sad. But more than that, I’m offended. All my life I’ve lived in the country. I grew up surrounded by cow pastures and cornfields. I want to scream when I hear people who move into the countryside complain about the fragrance of freshly applied manure, or bitch about slow-moving tractors that actually need to use the roads to get from field to field.

Maybe It Would Be Better Just to Visit

This tragic, accidental loss of a rooster is emblematic of a much larger problem. Selfishness. Ignorance. If you’re going to move to the country, you’re going to have to deal with the country. And the country means cows, goats, sheep, horses, pigs, donkeys, foxes, turkeys, deer, owls, hawks, raccoons, groundhogs and all sorts of other critters. Don’t move here and then try to change its nature. We. Are. Nature.

I’m not happy. I truly grieve for Duckhead. But even more so, I grieve for our hamlet. (That’s actually what our five houses are called on really old maps.) Are my beloved donkeys next? They bray at the weirdest times sometimes – even in the middle of the night. Let me tell you: that sound can freak you out if you don’t know what it is.

And what about their roosters? I literally heard two distinctly separate cocks crowing just this afternoon. They sounded at least as loud as Duckhead. Are they next? Better not be.

I miss you, Duckhead. RIP. (Or better yet – come back again!)

(T-1046)

Duckhead, making sure things are safe before giving his girls the ‘all clear.’ Photo by AK