Winner, winner, uh, rooster dinner

What did I learn about going off-grid? Roosters are mean. They make a lot of noise, they’re pushy, and, they gang rape chickens. The latter fact comes from Napa Valley journalist and author Lynda Hopkins - who should know because she wrote a book titled The Wisdom of the Radish on becoming a fledgling - uh, sorry - farmer, in which the nasty birds feature prominently.

It’s not like we moved off-grid to hang out with mean roosters. But we wanted fresh eggs as part of our drive to self-sufficiency and food security, and, innocents that we are we decided to get some chicks. Said birds came from Steph’s colleague, a “homesteader” who raised chickens and grew a sizeable garden at his modest 4,800 square foot home on Cow Bay in Eastern Passage.

Think about that for a minute.

Of the six “chickens” we received, five turned out to be roosters.

Bastards.

It’s not their fault or the fault of our “chicken pusher” (cue Steppenwolf’s Pusher Man here). Apparently, it’s difficult to sex chicks when they’re young and if improperly done can actually end up injuring them. So, we had five humanely bred roosters. At first, everything was okay. They all bobbed around the chicken - uh, rooster - coop agreeably enough, pecking at the greens and other bits of food we tossed them.

Then the crowing began. We named the chickens - damn, I mean, the roosters - after former neighbours, my older sister who helped us purchase our property, and our realtor who was instrumental in assisting us secure the property. Accordingly, we called the birds, Chris, Ann-Margaret, Dylan, and Leah for our neighbours across the street. Evie gained her name from my sister, while the last rooster bore our real estate agent’s name, Tammy.

The crowing. Tammy was the loudest and most frequent, and in no way a reflection of our realtor who, in the midst of a pandemic, helped us sell our house at a price we didn’t even believe was imaginable, and purchase the house of our dreams at less than the asking price. Anything and everything set off Tammy (the rooster, not the realtor). She had a classic rooster’s crow but for the fact that every time it finished in an odd “ooooooo” wheeze. So for 10 or so minutes at a time it was “cock-a-doodle-dooooo…wait for it….”ooooooo.”

Then the others chimed in. The worst was Dylan (the rooster named for my former neighbour). Dylan emitted a cry that sounded as if someone was strangling him half-way through his crow. It was disturbing and horrific. Tammy would triumphantly crow: “Cock-a-doodle-doooo…..ooooo.” Then Dylan would let loose with “aaaooorooarghooooo.”

At first this was vaguely charming. Well, not really. Actually, it was annoying as fuck. Imagine you have a gang of drunk hooligans living in your backyard, and every now and then they get so outrageously pissed that they all begin to howl. Fucking roosters. We should have made them tiny black leather jackets with rockers on them showing their club affiliation. I can almost hear them firing up their little Harleys in the coop as I write this.

We didn’t understand what was setting them off until one day Steph said, “I think I hear an echo.” Sure enough, upon a closer listen you could hear Tammy’s “oooooooo” reverberating back, precipitating a new round of cacophony. It was less than restful.

I trolled off-grid and chicken Facebook groups, extolling the virtues of our roosters (who am I kidding? They had none.). I had no takers, and this was a serious concern. Everything we had read about roosters (at least an entire book) suggested they would become more aggressive, not only to each other, but to the chickens as well.

We quickly discovered we could not give them away. No one wanted roosters. I offered them up on Facebook, posted in the off-grid Facebook group I help administer, asked the Lunenburg Farmer’s Market if they’d check with their vendors and see if any one wanted them (I never received a response to that particular query), and so forth.

Finally Steph’s cousin Nick offered to “rescue” four of the roosters, and show them the roomy interior of his stewpot. Nick came over and jammed the birds into sacks, with the exception of Ann-Margaret and Evie. We thought Evie might actually be a chicken, but weren’t certain. Just as Nick was set to drive off, “Evie” crowed: “Aaaarrrrggoooarrggaah.”

It was Dylan.

No way Dylan was staying, not with that horrible crow. We opened the bags, and pulled out the rooster we thought was Evie.

For two days it was blissfully quiet around the house. Ann-Margaret and “Evie” strutted about, pecked, and did all their chicken business. Then on the third day, “Evie” let loose: “Cock-a-doodle-doooooo….ooooooooo.”

We had rescued Tammy, not Evie. We figured out later that in the bags all the roosters had tucked their tail feathers under, making it difficult to discern who was who. Evie had ended up on the dinner table while Tammy triumphantly crowed once, twice, 20 times a day, 15 or 20 times in a row.

Tammy may have had the last laugh…for now, at least until we source a new hatch of chicks in the spring. In the meantime, I’ve been looking up Coq Au Vin recipes, a lovely dish in which roosters can play a starring role, and that features bacon and wine. If properly cooked, it’s enough to make anyone swoon over their plates, and crow: “Oooooooooooo."