A couple weeks ago, some irresponsible stranger dumped a couple of rooster brothers on our lawn and sped away. The pair hung back for a couple days, too shy to meet the hens, and roosting in the trees at night.

We did eventually catch them. Our neighbor, Dona, who helps out here, took one of the roosters home with her – the troublesome one, so we thought. But once again, we are greenhorns in these matters and Dona’s rooster has turned out to be superior to ours. By superior, I mean that he is so meek, so trepidatious, that it took him a week to work up the courage to approach a hen. It took ten days for him to find his way into the coop. She has named him Wimpy, and I’m coveting him.

The one we kept does not lack confidence. He moved himself right in the very first night, taking up a roost in the primo corner with all the popular girls. During the day, he engages in lots of puffery and flappery, crowing to every beetle and bumblebee that flits past his roving eye. We haven’t named him yet because he is still on trial. And frankly, I’m not sure it’s going to work out for him.

I’m used to stupid adolescent boys, having raised four. Their mistakes and mishaps and armpits could fill pages but they were mine and they didn’t treat women like teabags.

This rooster does exactly that. He dominates the hen, grabs her by the neck, often pulling out a feather or two, has his way with her, and then leaps off like he’s got an appointment at a Ferrari dealership. She’s left flustered and disheveled.

I’ve read that some roosters dance to romance a hen. Hmpff. This guy sidesteps like a creepy drunk, and any chicken who isn’t vigilant finds herself without a neck feather or two.

Two mornings in, we found one of the senior hens dead in her box. I texted Dona and asked if our rooster could possibly be murderous. She texted back, “He probably goosed her and she thought all heavens and couldn’t take it.”

He also hogs the good food. He doesn’t share. This crime might garner more outrage from the men around here who tend to stare off into the distance when he roughly bestrides an unprepared hen.

Our old rooster, Ragnarok, or Raggy for short, was a noble fellow. He didn’t pull out feathers when mating. He didn’t crow around the clock. He always showed the ladies where to peck and then got out of the way. 

Raggy disappeared the same week that my father-in-law passed away, so perhaps I am projecting the memory of my elegant and gentlemanly father-in-law onto our poor lost rooster. 

Either way, this latest unnamed male chicken ain’t no eligible prince. And as such, he might end up as chicken à la king.