Pure Poultry

Bumptious: Presumptuously, obtusely, and often noisily self-assertive.

— Merriam-Webster Dictionary

WITH THE EXCEPTION OF OUR FIRST ROOSTER, Charlemagne, and our old tom turkey (cleverly named Old Tom), we have rarely named any of our birds. It’s a good thing, too, considering how many we have now! Anyway, over the years, we have made an occasional exception to this rule. Usually this was a bird that had become something of a farm mascot. The first of these mascots was Violet, a.k.a. Violent.

Violet was a Buff Orpington hen, one of the original seven chickens we started out with. A few months after we got her, she started showing signs of not being well: she was keeping away from the other chickens and tended to hang out in a corner of the yard with her head hunched down into her shoulders. She didn’t seem to be eating much, and was clearly losing weight. David started calling her Shrinking Violet, or Violet, for short.

We were concerned, of course, but we had no idea what was wrong or what to do. We called a local veterinarian who was nice enough to give us some advice over the phone. She said the most important thing to remember with sick birds is to keep them warm. It was late fall, and nighttime temperatures were consistently below freezing. We decided to bring her inside for a day or two, where she could stay warm by the wood stove and we could keep a closer eye on her. She ate a little bit and seemed like she was feeling better.

At that point, we moved her to a temporary outdoor pen, thinking it would be a good idea to isolate her from the flock, just in case she had some kind of contagious disease. She promptly escaped (we never did figure out how) and rejoined her flock-mates. This happened twice more. Each time she went back to the other birds, she seemed to get more aggressive and assertive about claiming her place in the pecking order; hence the modification of her name to Violent. Then she would start to go downhill again, and we would isolate her again. Finally, after the third round of this routine, she died.

We were glad that she wasn’t suffering any longer, but we also wanted to try to learn something about what had happened, if possible. David did a post-mortem examination and discovered an undigested piece of raw potato in her stomach. We know now that raw potatoes are poisonous to birds (as well as pigs and some other animals). From then on, we have been careful to keep the birds away from anywhere we are growing potatoes, and any potato peelings to be composted are cooked first, just to be safe.

So Violet was our first real mascot. It probably should have been our rooster, Charlemagne, but he turned out to be an aggressive, mean-spirited despot, no doubt much like his namesake. He didn’t live long enough to be a mascot, anyway.

Bumptious was one of Charlemagne’s sons, hatched in the second batch of chicks he sired that summer. Actually, his first nickname was Little Shit. He was a friendly bird who liked to hop up on our laps when we were sitting outside. One time he jumped up on David’s lap, whereupon he promptly squatted and deposited an impressive pile of poop on his shoe. David, who is much better than me at coming up with names for just about anything, chose the marvelous word “Bumptious,” partly as being a more acceptable name to use in mixed company. But actually, the name fitted his personality really well (the rooster’s, I mean, not David’s).

One of the most difficult things we had to do that first year was to slaughter Bumptious. He had become progressively more like his father, aggressive to the point of sneaking up behind us and kicking at our legs with his spurs. That hurts, believe me, when a rooster’s spurs make contact with an unsuspecting shin. Poor David was just a wreck that day. He was quite fond of Bumptious, and it was a terribly difficult decision to slaughter him, in spite of the rooster’s behavior. As far as we were concerned, giving him away was out of the question. We could not, in good conscience, have given him to someone else, knowing how mean and aggressive he was. That was a tough day for both of us, but especially for David.

Hampty was our first New Hampshire rooster. He was a large beautiful, friendly bird who helped us decide to go with New Hampshires as our choice of dual-purpose chicken. We had him for over two years, and we just loved him. He was calm, quieter than most roosters, very protective of his hens and never even a little bit aggressive toward us. We lost him in 2010, after he was injured by a bobcat. He survived the initial attack, but sadly he died a few days later. He had produced some beautiful chicks, though.

Hampty.

Old Tom, the patriarch of our Midget White turkey flock.

The only other real mascot we’ve had is Old Tom, the patriarch of our Midget White turkey flock. He was hatched in the spring of 2008. He is truly a sweet, sweet bird. He loves people, loves to be petted, simply adores being in the center of a crowd of people, especially if one of them is clicking a camera in his direction. He is also an excellent breeder, having fathered dozens of baby turks over the years. We honestly can’t imagine ever slaughtering him, unless he were injured or ill to the point where we felt we had to end his suffering. Most likely, hopefully, he will live to a ripe old age here on the farm, enjoying his golden years being admired and photographed and petted by children.

We have many good memories connected with Old Tom, like all of our previous farm mascots, and it’s hard to imagine life here without him.