Ah, the quality of life for a rooster. From the first creaky pubescent crow to the full-throated voicing that stakes his territory, the rooster rules the roost. That is, at least, if he’s the dominant male in the flock. The other suitors lurk in the wings, watching impatiently for an opportunity for a quick assignation in the bushes with a willing (or unwilling) partner. But such is a dangerous existence for the youngster; infringements into the life of the royal court, if he’s caught in a dalliance, can result in a bloody beatdown by the king.

These roosters-in-waiting, these prince regents, skirt the edges of the demesne hoping for an early departure of their paternal unit. The age-old tale of one such rooster is what this story is about: the glorious reign of the heir, elevated at last to the throne … if only for a 48-hour period, before being toppled by his own lusts.

The protagonist of this story is a yearling cockerel, one of eight “spares” of his sex who had been caught, separated, and penned for fattening and butcher. From the beginning, he stood out as a particularly fine-looking princeling, buff and ready for what life offered. For 45 days he lived in this all-boys dormitory, one with plenty of outside space in which to quarrel with his mates and then dine twice daily on rich rations. A life lived in indolence while plumping up for the slaughter, waiting unawares for that cold, cruel day.

Yet, miraculously, on the fateful morning of beheading, he was spared. At the last second, as Cindy wrangled the roosters, handing each to me for the killing cone, we decided on a reprieve for one bird. Our old rooster, a large, beautifully plumed fellow of three years, was chosen for the sacrificial altar in place of the handsome prince. The rex of the roost had lived a good life. But now, in the twilight of his reign, it was time to “counsel” him to abdicate in favor of a younger ruler with a little more pep in his stride.

I grabbed the old boy as he ogled a nice plump hen and unceremoniously cut his throat before adding him to the pile of youngsters to be plucked and gutted. The heir to the throne was released without a formal coronation. Now the only cock of the walk, with 20 females all to himself, the new monarch wasted no time sprinting from hen to hen, fulfilling his destiny (and no doubt his adolescent dreams).

Meanwhile, we got on with the work of prepping the carcasses for the freezer. As we cut them open one by one, we noted that their cavities were filled with fat, hearts covered in globs of glistening yellow, the result of a 45-day high-protein-and-grain diet and no occasion to be chased by a ruling rooster and burn it off — all of which would make for some mighty tasty soups and gumbos, though, had they lived, not so much for good cardio-health and a long and active lifestyle. We gave it no more thought.

Two days later I walked out to the sawmill. There, I found the newly crowned king, dead on the ground. Death by heart attack, no doubt, brought on by a frantic 48 hours of lusty indulgence as he made up for lost time trying to satisfy all the hens in his domain.

And that should have been the end of this tale … except. Except a few days later we discovered another handsome cockerel. He had bided his time even farther out on the fringes of the dominion, lying in wait for this momentous day. Now, having returned to his ancestral lands and claimed the throne, this heir and a spare, having eaten heart-healthy all his life, leads (we hope) a somewhat more enduring existence on this farm.

…………………………………………………………………………..

Reading this weekend: Eastern Approaches (F. Maclean) and The Coming of Neo-Feudalism: A Warning to the Global Middle Class (J. Kotkin). The former is a terrific autobiography of a British diplomat during the years prior to and during WW2. The latter does a good job of explaining current politics, who profits from our partisanship, and where we might be heading.

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