Once again, I thought I had my act together and boom! Feathers fly. I found a happy home for the three boys. Here they are just before I began to round them up for the trip to their new home:
Texts sent to the new Rooster steward, Alyson, during my solo capturing of the boys:
“One down, two feral to go.”
“They can definitely fly.”
“One left and a terrorized sister.”
“On my way!”
In the Leaf, our 2012 electric vehicle with a range of 60 on a good day. But that’s another story. Suffice it to say, I made it there and back.
There, Alyson met me and we transferred them–Elf in the cat cage and Santa and Cockles in the dog cage–onto her truck and bumpity bump we went down to the second barn where we were met by the curiosity of myriad sheep, goats and Llamas. Friends for the boys!
The comforting idea that the boys had a happy, cozy, safe home and lots of new friends was swiftly set aright. Once freed, Elf ran down the field, away from the barn and to the edge of the fenced area, and Santa and Cockles scurried and flapped in the opposite direction to a bench. I headed down to get Elf who, needless to say, had no intention of letting me anywhere near him, given our recent history of chase and dodge. I convinced him to head back toward the barn. That worked until the approach of a curious sheep sent Elf flapping, then flying up and over the mere six foot of fencing and into the trees.
Alyson and I headed to the other two, who thought Elf had had an inspired idea. Up and over they flew.
Alyson and I agreed that we hadn’t quite thought this one through. After all, why would three roosters, when introduced to entirely strange living quarters–aka a barn–with many four-legged-creatures-never-before-seen opt to calmly roost on the rafters of that barn? Far and above more likely? What occurred. All three fluttered up into the trees, leaving us earthlings . . . grounded?
After a long contemplation of the facts–three feral birds and a container of mealy worms that they might or might not be interested in–Alyson suggested we not have our planned lunch together. She would continue with her chores, calling and clucking to the birds, and I would head home to wallow in guilt and worry.
They survived the first night and crowed the dawning of the day. But the weather yesterday was horrific–rain and sleet and wind–and today the wind buffets and blows and I worry but no miracles up my sleeve, and no action. All I know is this: they are in the best of hands with Alyson. If only they knew what a kind and generous new caretaker they have.
Our remaining flock of thirteen hens? Quiet and calm. Whereas for months, we have gotten none to two eggs, yesterday the hens gifted us five. And Pearl, the little sister who spent her youth as a Tomboy, hanging out with her brothers, is now facing the not pleasant task of being nice to those she used to tease from behind her brothers tail feathers.