King of the Roost by John Caverhill Somehow, along the way, the terms, “chicken” and “chicken- hearted”, have evolved into derogatory terms used to describe those who are timid or “afraid to take a chance”. I started the preceding sentence with the word “somehow” because anyone who has seen a mother hen fly into action in defence of her baby chicks, or a couple of roosters each battling to dominate the other, knows that timidity is not a part of their makeup. For a few years back in the 1950s, the barnyard of our neighbour, Elliott Shipley, was dominated by a large rooster who quickly dispelled any ideas one might have had concerning timid chickens. He feared “neither man nor beast” as he strode roosterfully about the barnyard, a supreme example of rampant male chauvinism. He demanded and accepted as his right, instant and abject obedience from all members of his harem. Any hen unfortunate enough to attract his amorous advances would fly squawking to the far side of the barnyard after the brief copulatory confrontation ended in an explosion of feathers hitherto attached to the hen. The stature of this bird and his belligerent approach to life combined with the malevolent glare from his eyes never failed to impress those who saw him. His whole aspect was that of one who, thoroughly disillusioned with his fate, would sneer, and spit out the side of his beak at any rhapsodizing about the beauty of life. The poor fellow, however, had good reason to be disillusioned with his lot in life. Most of us have experienced sunburn which can vary from mildly uncomfortable to extremely painful. The expression, “Sore as a sunburned neck” obviously originated from someone who experienced the malady on one of the more vulnerable and uncomfortable parts of the human anatomy. To have complained about a sunburned neck to this rooster would have been like complaining to Noah about an upset pail of water. During his early chickenhood, he had fallen victim to some malady that left him completely bereft of feathers except for a thin downy fringe around his neck, a ridiculous tuft on his tail, and a few tattered specimens on the end of each wing. The resulting exposure to the elements, especially the sun, had left his skin a fiery red and if one could have painted his temper, I am sure it would have been equally fiery red. At the time of this story, the big fellow was concluding his second year as boss of the barnyard. Getting maximum egg production requires the annual replacement of your flock of laying hens. Back in the days when most farms had laying hens, the general custom was to buy baby chicks each spring and by mid-fall, they had matured to the point where they started to out-produce
the previous hens which were then sold to make way for the new flock. Arnold Paisley of Ilderton operated his own trucking business and each fall many local farmers called on him to truck their flocks of old hens to the local meat-processing plants such as Coleman’s in London. On this particular day, the loading of the Shipley flock had just been completed, and Arnold was enjoying a cup of tea in the kitchen before departing with his load. Elliott excused himself, slipped out to the barn, grabbed the rooster which he had trapped the night before and slipped it into the top chicken crate on the load. Shortly after, Arnold departed with his load, leaving the barnyard which seemed strangely quiet to the young hens. During chores the next morning, Elliott’s curiosity was roused by an unusual commotion rising from the chickens out in the barnyard. Stepping around the corner of the barn, he was confronted by a large, naked, sunburned rooster. Like the cat who came back, his rooster had likewise returned and was wasting no time in re- establishing himself as ruler of the barnyard. While the Shipleys were at breakfast, the phone rang. It was Arnold with a story to tell. The day before at the packing plant, they were just going to start unloading the hens when they came face-to-face with the head and neck of a rooster sticking out from between the slats of the top crate. Judging from the indignant glare of his eyes, this rooster was not a happy bird. According to Arnold, the workers refused to take the bird when they saw in all his sunburned glory, claiming that even soup made from him would be so tough it would break a spoon. Arnold concluded by saying he was sure the rooster was a family pet who had ended up in the shipping crate by mistake, so he returned the bird late at night not wanting to disturb the Shipley family while they were asleep. Eliott countered that while he appreciated Arnold’s thought- fulness, he had hoped to get double the regular price for the rooster because, in addition to being de-feathered, he was also parboiled! And so, the boss of the barnyard was home to stay. Elliott claimed that his close encounter with the soup kettle left him a better bird. As for the rest of us, while the old fellow seemed as irascible and domineering as ever, one couldn’t help admiring his indomitable spirit as he strode amongst his harem unbowed by the slings of fate.
03/02/2024, 18:14
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John Caverhill is the younger son of the late Ernest Caverhill and Susie Boyd of Lobo Township. John’s writings often reflect his experiences and observations of growing up on the family farm, attending the one room school, S. S. No. 7 Lobo (Bear Creek School), and Vanneck United Church. John’s sense of humour and story-telling skills are legendary. His keen observation skills have augmented his repertoire .
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Page 8 Ilderton and Area Villager • June 2024
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