R.I.P. Buck Buck Stricker

I hate to admit it, but last night we did NO homework as I was busy preparing for Rodeo Day.  Today was a different story.  We did homework, went to basketball practice and finally got to bed by 8:15p.m.  I was wishing I was in bed and asleep at 8:15, too.  Chloe went to the rodeo with friends last night and slept over at their house.  This morning she looked tired, but not too tired to tell me about all the cowboy autographs she scored at the rodeo.  Oh dear.

Fighting Irish is still under the weather and doesn't seem to be eating.  I've checked every chicken website and all of my chicken books and I can't seem to figure out the problem.  I suspect he will not live much longer and unfortunately I have no way to know how to help him short of visiting the vet.  Experience has shown me that vets, even the country vets, are NOT chicken experts.  About four years ago I had a pet rooster, he was my only fowl at the time, who was attacked by a fox.  I was out of town and my sweet husband, fearful that my favorite pet would die, rushed it to an avian vet in town.  They pumped him full of steroids and sent him home.  I remained out of town, speaking daily with the rooster via the phone.  Thadd would hold the phone to the rooster's ear and he would perk up when he heard my voice.  Each day I spoke to him, Thadd said the only time he seemed to have hope was when he heard my voice.  Three days later I arrived home to find a very badly injured rooster.  As I sat, cradling Buck in my arms, he began to gurgle and go in and out of consciousness.  I sat, crying and rocking Buck and telling him he was going to be ok.  My husband called the vet and asked if they would put my rooster down as his injuries were too severe and he was only getting worse.  They agreed.  We showed up at the vet and I had stopped crying enough to entertain the vet's humor.  He said he had never put a rooster to sleep but read it in a book and would try his very best.  It is necessary to find a vein or to directly penetrate the heart, so this could be tricky.  He also managed to throw in the fact that every time he buys a chicken all of the organs are stowed neatly in the cavity of the bird in a bag.  Good point.

They give him the first of two shots and his legs begin to straighten and he starts to flatten out with his legs and wings spread on the table.  They failed to tell me that my rooster would become much like cooked spaghetti.  I kept trying to put him back together while the medicine was working against me.  I started to change my mind about putting him to sleep.  The second shot worked after a little extra drama.  I wanted to walk out and take my chicken with me, but it was only a matter of time and all these meds would take his life.  Imagine those fake dying scenes where the actor takes forever to finally "die" and there you have the agony I experienced while putting my rooster down.  My husband vowed to do the "putting to sleep" himself in the future and I vowed to never become so attached to another rooster again.

It was hard not to love Buck.  He was a large, strong, handsome rooster.  Driving along the country road to my house I spotted him.  He was alone and abandoned.  I drove around the neighborhood to find his owner.  I checked all the feed stores and animals clinics and no one had a lost rooster.  I drove back to the spot where I had seen him earlier in the day and recalled the words of my friend who happened to be in the car with me that morning.  "If the chicken is still here in the evening I think we should have mole." she said and we laughed.  Mole is a delicious chicken dish with a chocolatey chili sauce.  I picked up my husband and asked him to drive the car while I gathered the rooster and held him while we drove home.  He was a sweet rooster.  He never acted aggressively and followed me around like a dog.  He slept in a dog kennel at night and during the day he ate chicken feed, delicious scraps, and I would often feed him his favorite treat, yogurt.  Sometimes I would rest on the pavement while he preened my hair.  In the mornings when I was getting ready for the day he would sit outside my bathroom door and watch.  Wanting attention he would peck the glass to get me to open the door and talk to him.  If I sat down, he would find a spot next to me.  If I poured poison on ant piles all around the property, he followed me.   He was a dog stuck in a rooster's body.

I will never forget my handsome rooster Buck and I will never love a rooster like I loved him.  R.I.P Buck Buck Stricker.