IT WAS THE DAY AFTER CHICKEN DAY. Around 5:30 in the morning, we heard crowing. The coop being about 65 yards from the house, I was surprised at how loud it was. “There he goes,” mumbled David. He turned over and pulled a pillow firmly over his head.
As soon as it was fully light, we went down to the chicken yard. The chicken feed was stored in the coop, and David was lugging a three-gallon poultry drinker. Although we planned to let the birds free-range, we felt that it would be best to confine them in a large fenced area for a few days. We reasoned that this would give them time to make the transition to an unfamiliar place (with unfamiliar owners), while keeping them relatively safe.
I stood by with my camera as David unlatched and opened the front door of the coop. We stayed off to one side, waiting. Soon the rooster, Charlemagne, leaned his head out the door, looked around suspiciously and stepped cautiously out onto the ramp. After a minute or two, he apparently noticed that nothing had, in fact, attacked him. He walked quickly down the ramp, followed closely by the six hens.
In the excitement and general hilarity of the photo session that followed the appearance of our first chickens, we were blissfully clueless that we were about to find out how much we had yet to learn.
You’re probably wondering why I chose a name like Charlemagne for the rooster. Although in general I haven’t the slightest inclination to name our animals, I had planned all along to name our first rooster Charlemagne after the infamous rooster in Peter Mayle’s A Year in Provence. You know, “le bloody cock” who crowed all night, infuriating the Parisian neighbor, Madame Hermonville, and her visiting city friends.
Luckily, our nearest neighbors are two miles down the hill, and as far as I know, they’re not Parisians. However, like the real Charlemagne (an empire-building Frankish king who eventually conquered much of Europe), our rooster was aggressive, protective of his harem and most definitely not monogamous. When he started sneaking up behind us and attacking us without provocation, well, his little empire came to a premature — and yet not untimely — end. You know, le bloody stockpot.
Oh, by the way, we did get one egg from our new hens the first day.
Charlemagne.