Like I said, he didn’t talk much, and kept himself to himself, working hard all day, eating with us silently, then retreating to his trailer to sleep. Once I had to go in there. It was a sunday, and we were going to church and grandma wanted Bolero to come. I opened the door after knocking and recieving no reply. Since I figured he would still be sleeping, I poked my head in. Bolero was asleep under the covers, but one of our bantams was perched on his pillow.
Later I asked him if he had realized that the bantam had been on his pillow and he said yeah, the bantam always came in the trailer. He fed it some bread and it didn’t want to leave. It was a kind of scrawny bantam, never seemed to hang out with the other bantams. He thought it probably needed a home.

After that I often noticed the bantam running after Bolero as he sauntered across the field in the evening to his trailer, and it disappered inside with him.
After a few months Bolero left us, saying he had to be going. No one knew where. None of us asked. After he was gone I couldn’t find the bantam. I looked in the trailer. Nothing. I reckon she went with him.

So we had this rooster, right? We named him King, because he was a Polish, and as you may know, Polish have these weird crown-like, pompoms on their heads.  Also he had a kind of regal air, strutting around like Mick Jagger on stage, thrusting his chest forward as roosters are want to do.

This is, I guess, a kind of typical rooster story, because I’ve heard it in some iteration or other several times.  But here’s how this one went down.

At about ten months into King’s life, when he was fully grown and was just beginning to exercise his duties as a rooster, he also became very aggressive towards us. In particular to the kids who were 3 and 5 at the time.

Out of the blue, he would launch himself at them, flapping his wings, achieving lift off for several yards, and projecting his raptor’s claws out in front of him.  The youngest was very scared. The oldest a little less so, and liked to provoke him into a fight, then run away screaming. The youngest once walked about a half mile around the yard to get back to the house in order to avoid “the Kingdom.”

Eventually, we had suffered enough. We had gotten over our affection for him, and he was no longer the cute chick that he had been. One attack too many decided it, and I got my gun.

All I had to hand was a .177 caliber air rifle. Not being a hunting man, since I find anything but killing for subsistence pretty senseless,  I didn’t have a shotgun or rifle. But the air rifle was surely good enough for a Polish bantam.

Cover your eyes if you don’t like violence.

I took aim from about six feet away and shot him in the head. Cold, ain’t it?

He rolled down the bank and then got up again and looked like he was drunk.

 So I reloaded and stalked to within six feet again and fired.  This time there was blood. He flapped and rolled, but was back on his feet.

It took me a third shot into his tiny brain to end it.

The hens were looking confused. “Sure, King was a B*&%$@d, but is he coming for us next?”

After that I plucked and dressed him, and put him in the slow cooker with lots of red wine, potatoes onions and a bunch of spices. He was kind of skinny, but he cooked up real good.

“Is this King?” one of the kids asked.  My wife looked at me.

“Yup.”

“Not bad, is he?”

So, for all of you roosters out there….

Watch it.

Unfortunately, Bertha had  passed away sometime between the last time I had seen her and the morning.  She showed no signs of injury or harm, so I determined she must have been sick and died of natural causes. My son and my three daughters were upset at the loss of our pet, and decided that a proper burial was in order. We dug the grave, said a few words, and said good-bye to Bertha. When my neighbors would stop by and do a quick count, they quickly asked what happed to the sixth hen. My daughter Laurette would always tell them that Bertha went to Kevin. After many puzzled looks I had to point to our make shift grave and explain, “Bertha went to Kevin.”

Contributer Bio: Bryan and his family live in Remsenburg on the east end of Long Island, NY.

What kind of Chicken person am I: I have a couple chickens

This post was submitted by Bryan Schaumloffel.

Chicken Sandwich (what my dad called her for she never had an actual name) took the matter into her own hands.  She decided she was to never go near the coup where all her friends died, not even near it.  She decided to sleep in a tree one night.  I was outside one evening and I saw the chicken going near the woods down the grassy hill (away from the coup).  She pecked the ground in search of grub, clovers, and grass for her dinner. Just as the sun was about to go down she flapped her wings and jumped trying to get into the tree.  Oops she missed the pine branch and fluttered to the ground blowing a few feathers onto the green, dewy grass. She tried again making the branch 6 feet tall.  By that time the sky had turned green-blue with some midnight blue surrounding it and the sun had disappeared from view.  The lonely, sad chicken then jumped up one more branch out of vision.  I went over and looked up and she looked down.

“What are you doing pretty girl?”  She answered me blinking her black eyes with a light voice sweetly.  She stood up nervously so I backed up the hill a bit, then she settled back down, sitting on her branch again.   I’m really going to miss you Chicky, I thought, I really wish I wasn’t leaving you.  It’s like a nightmare come true. My eyes watered slightly making mosquitoes come nearer to my face.  Slap!  I slapped a mosquito near my eye; I really don’t need a big, red, blotch on my face! I laughed as the chicken kept talking to me in her low whispery voice.  My dad tried taking pictures of the chicken looking down on us but they didn’t turn out very well.   It made me smile to think of a chicken looking down on me; it’s supposed to be the other way around.  I laughed and smiled the rest of the night knowing this would end soon, very soon.

A couple of days later she came up onto the old peeling, blue porch looking for someone to talk to.  She found me on the porch eating pretzels on our blue and green chairs.  The chicken talked to me and jumped at my hand trying to get my pretzels, so I broke them into chicken bite-size pieces and through them to her.  She pecked them then gulped them down greedily wanting more.   I gave her my last three pretzels then went inside.

At one point she got too lonely outside in the yard and wanted to come inside with us.  She had the most peculiar idea of jumping at the windows to get inside the house and say hi.
“Myah look,” my mom pointed to the window as the chicken was fluttering her wings and flying at the glass.   I laughed with my mom watching her do it over and over trying to get inside with us.
The very next day she did the exact same thing while my parents were working outside in the yard on the garden.  When they came in for lunch they left the door open wide and the chicken just walked in looking around to see if it was safe.  She talked to us in her soft voice and we talked to her.  She looked at us with her head sideways and talked some more.  Eventually we had to shoo her out of the house since she would probably soon go to the bathroom on the floor (thus the reason why I always wear shoes outside is because I might find chicken surprise in the grass).

The summer was soon to end and moving time was coming closer and closer.  My grandparents decided to come and visit.  They both loved the chicken as much as we did.  The time soon came and we had to travel south to go to New York City and drop my grandparents off on the way in Boston to catch their plane.

“Myah can you please fill these two containers with bird feed for Kathy to feed the chicken with?” My mom asked me the night before we were to departure on our road trip.

“Yeah, sure mom,” I answered before running out the door with the containers passing the chicken on her roost my dad had made for her.   I jerked the shed doors open and ran in.  Once I got to the feed bags I started scooping it into the plastic, black containers.  When I was done filling each one I snapped the clear lids on.  As soon as I was completed with the task I brought them back in the house to eat dinner.

I woke up to the sound of people bustling downstairs adding the finishing touches to their bags.  I looked at the clock and saw it was 5:00 am, might as well get ready for the long road trip ahead.  I put on my clothes as quick as possible and rushed downstairs to say good-bye to the chicken and give her hope for the long week ahead.  I opened the door after going through the crowd of my family on the first floor.   When I opened the door there was no chicken where it should be.  There were feathers, only feathers.  They trailed down the blue peeling porch and into the grass.  I stared in disbelief but there were no tears coming until I saw my grandmother come to me. She came to me as I was boiling over in hot, salty tears.

“I know how much you loved her sweetie.”

Later I ran over and gathered some of her fluffy black feathers and stuck them in a plastic bag, then put them in my room.   I put on my coat and we drove away teary eyed, never to see our beloved chicken again.

Contributer Bio: I’ve had many chickens and many losses. I’m 11 years old and now live in New York City full time but get to visit friend’s chickens in Maine.

What kind of Chicken person am I: Rural Community – 25 Chickens or less

This post was submitted by Myah Lunceford.

I found out that they are the smallest chickens in the world. In Malaysia where they are from many people keep them indoors and are just as popular as dogs and cats. They have only been in this country about ten years so it wasn’t easy to find a good breeder. I already had an incubator so I got a hold of some Serama eggs. Although, people were telling me that shipped eggs are very difficult to hatch with this breed of chicken, I went ahead anyway. I received 25 eggs and after 19 days in the incubator one lone egg hatched. I called the small yellow chick Solo. I placed a stuffed hedgehog in with her as well as a feather duster to serve as foster parents. At about one month I could tell the little chick would turn out to be a hen so I was thrilled. Roosters don’t cut it in the city due to the crowing factor.

Solo is now five months old and laying an egg about every other day. She is only about a pound which is on the bigger side for Serama’s which average about 12 to 14 oz. My dog and cat get along with her just fine and she’s not scared of them at all. When out of her cage she is in her chicken diaper. Yes, they have chicken diapers I couldn’t believe it myself. She is so lovable and cute. I’m so crazy about her that I uploaded a YouTube video showing the world how Solo makes such a wonderful little indoor pet. Check it out at

The web site I’m hoping will form a community of indoor chicken owners like myself who feel indoor chickens make wonderful pets.

My Solo makes me laugh daily she is so sweet and cute and is a very easy pet to keep. In return she gives me breakfast so I say move over Polly because chickens are moving in.

Contributer Bio: My name is Jill and I live in Massachusetts with my indoor chicken Solo, papillon Jack, and kitty Dusty.

What kind of Chicken person am I: I have a couple chickens

This post was submitted by Jill Warnick.

We had an old road island red rooster.  When we opened the back door he would race up and knock everything out of his way to see if it looked good to eat. The dog and the chickens came up and were looking at the potato, and i guess the rooster just loved sweet potatos.  Here he came like he was running for a touch down. He jumped over chickens and under the dog and around the tree. He knocked chickens down and without even investigating it he burried his beak all of the way to his eyeballs in that thing.  Then he picked his head up so proudly , like he had won the prize.

The other chickens looked at him as he balanced that potato on his beak. Well if you know anything about sweet potatos when you heat them up to 10 millon degrees and toss them outside they pretty much stay 10 millon degrees for about a day. Well that rooster looked over that potato at the other chickens, looking each one of them in the eye like he  had done something special. He looked this way and that, and i guess at that time the heat hit him, and  he shook his head, but the potato was still there.  He shook it harder and harder but it was stuck. Finally he sat down on his butt, and with both feet pushed it off. He got up, and i didnt know a chicken could spit, but i think he was spitting at it, and then he put one wing down and walked around it shaking his head and spitting at that potato. Every now and then he would jump at it trying to spur it.

The rooster looked at the other chickens, they looked at him, and all at once they jumped and flapped their wings and ran around. They were cackling at him. That was the funnest thing they ever saw.  After that, when we tossed out a sweet potato he would run up to it,  walk around it, turn and look at it out the side of his head, and say “awwwwwwwww” then touch it with his toe first.

Contributer Bio: 75 words or less about you as pertaining to this story and chickens in general.
Im a 51 year young man that moved to the city but now im back in the country about to get some more chickens

What kind of Chicken person am I: Rural Community – 25 Chickens or less

This post was submitted by RANDY.

Contributer Bio: I was born in the suburbs and always yearned for the country life and animals. I got my wish 27 years ago and have been blessed with many chickens, each having their own unique personalities. Caring for them has been a rewarding experience. Life without animals? I don’t think so!

What kind of Chicken person am I: Rural Community – 25 Chickens or less

This post was submitted by Jean Sweezey.

While many of the chickens were raised to feed our family, we always kept a few of them as a source of eggs and for the sheer pleasure of their company. Even though we raised quite a few with the intention of supplying our dinner table with much needed sustenance, we fully respected them for the wonderful animals they were.  As such, we provided them with all that we, as fellow critters, would want to stay happy during our lives. This included substantial time in our vast yard “free ranging” on the delicious grass and keeping the insect population down for us.

One afternoon we were corralling them back to their coop for the night. This was a necessity as they would sometimes try and roost in the trees which was a distinctly bad decision on their part, due to the number of predators that made our 90 acres their home. Even though we had the help of a very eager Australian Shepard, one lone rooster was adamant on staying out of the coop for the night. We tried for about an hour to get him into his home but to no avail.  He escaped into the woods and was long gone.

We hoped for the best but didn’t think a brown domesticated rooster would stand much of a chance against the weasels, foxes, hawks, etc. for very long. When he didn’t show up by evening we went in and went to bed feeling sorry for the poor little guy.

We got up the next day and while doing the morning chores I stopped in amazement. Far, far in the distance I could hear crowing! The little bugger had made it through the night! We hoped that he would return home by the end of the day but, alas, he did not. Again, we assumed he had met his end. But, wouldn’t you know it, we heard the same crowing again the next morning as well. This was one plucky chicken! This went on for five days — surely this couldn’t last forever! On day 6 he turned up in the yard. He had fought the good fight and lived to tell about it. From then on he was our resident rooster — how could we send such a hero to a fate as mundane as the stew pot? He never did wander very far from the coop from then on, but I am pretty sure I saw him look into the woods from time to time with a knowing look in his eye.

Contributer Bio: I spent my wonderful childhood years on our amazing 90 wooded acres. The freedom to roam and the responsibility for our critters led me to a life of environmentalism with a strong passion for animal rights. I now have converted to “city life” but I have found immense enjoyment in it via a large garden and edible landscaping. Chickens are to be added to our menagerie by the end of this summer

What kind of Chicken person am I: Rural Community – 25 Chickens or less

This post was submitted by Amanda Bradshaw-Burks.

We decided to name him Leo because he was a rooster with confidence and grit.  He was also a rooster who did not take kindly to being caged up. So we gave Leo free range of the yard, and he seemed to love to leave me “calling cards” on the hood of my truck.

Well, Leo was already a well-traveled young man being he came from three towns over.  But one evening he displayed his love for travel in a whole new way.  My wife mentioned that we were out of milk, so I headed to the truck to drive to the local store.  Looking around to make sure Leo was not on my truck or behind me, I jumped in,  started my truck and backed out to make my trip. I drove the mile and a half to the store, walked in and made my purchase, stopped and chatted for a moment and headed back to the truck.

As I walked across the parking lot I caught a glimpse of a TAIL FEATHER!  As I looked under the truck, I got the shock of my life: There was Leo, perched on the axle, looking at me as if to say “are you done yet? I have a yard to pick over.”  Well try as I might I could not entice him out.  After suffering enough laughter from a few folks, I decided that my best option was to drive slowly home.  The return trip took forever,  as I was watching for a feather puff to pop out behind me, but eventually we made it home safely. After turning off the truck, Leo popped out, waited for his crack corn snack,  hopped ontop the hood and deposited something I thought he would have got rid of already. 

 Unfortunetly Leo is no longer with us as a hawk came down one day and caught him.  Needless to say, Leo and I had a good time together. I could call to him and he would come running and loved to be picked up and have a pet (when he wanted it of course). I hope you enjoy the story as much as I enjoyed living it.

Contributer Bio: I live in Maine. I own several bantams and will be receiving 50 Buckeyes this spring. I own a Wildlife Removal business and my children have a chance to experiance many diffrent animals. We also have 2 dogs, 2 cats.

What kind of Chicken person am I: Rural Community – 25 Chickens or less

This post was submitted by Jason Coombs.

The horse nonchalantly walked to the river’s edge and began to drink. The crocodiles continued to lounge in the water.  Why was everything so calm when there was a perfect opportunity for a meal for the deadly beasts?

“Chicken,” said a park ranger near by, as if reading our minds.

“Excuse me?”

“They eat too much chicken,” he said gesturing at the crocs.

“Where do they get that from?”

“Up river, at the chicken farm. They get fed fat fresh chicken every day.  They don’t need to eat fish, even, they’re so full of chicken meat!” He wandered off, chuckling.

We thought of our hens back home, bred for laying eggs. We knew that they were better off than the industrial battery hens that produce most of the eggs in the US. But these Costa Rican chickens? Food for crocs! How low on the food chain could they get? The chicken, it seemed, down here, was so plentiful it could grace both human and crocodile dinner table without breaking a sweat.

Who would have thought it would come to this!

This post was submitted by Erika Lunceford.