Ol' Roos

Ol’ Roos was a leftover from the age when we had chickens. Old enough to vote, if he’d a mind to, Ol’ Roos was a little white rooster with spurs that any cowboy would envy. With no tail feathers to speak of he looked kinda like a little old man in a rooster suit.

Roos had outlived his flock and had taken up herding us. He had the run of the place, except for the fenced-in yard around the house, and did pretty much as he pleased.

I don’t remember when he started terrorizing everyone. I just remember how it changed our day-to-day routine. I would be working outside and get this feeling I should turn around, there he’d be three or four feet away scratching in the dirt pretending nothing was going on. As soon as I turned my back on him here he would come and nail me on the back of the leg. As if that wasn’t bad enough he would scrooch all up and let loose with this victory crow like an Indian war whooping after counting coup.

He was so sneaky about it; skidding to a stop, casually scratching and pecking in dirt when I caught him coming after me. Pretending he wasn’t at all interested in me or that I was even around he would continue to scratch and peck until I turned to go, and pow! He would nail me again, then stretch up all nice and tall and crow his heart out.

I carried a big stick and whacked him up along the side the head. He would back off, wait for me to turn, crow “charge” and come after me again. I whacked him again with the same result. That rooster got whacked so many times he was in serious need of a chiropractor.

The first summer my cousin Tina spent with us she was eight years old. She was deathly afraid of Ol’ Roos and for good reason. Dad knew how scared she was of that old rooster and he would wait until she was out in the middle-of-no-where and yell, “Tina, here comes Ol’ Roos.” She wouldn’t look left or right, just head for the nearest fence, wall, or tree to climb. When she felt safe she would look around and see that Ol’ Roos was nowhere in sight and Dad was having a good laugh.

In the evenings I hunted the rats that hung around the hog sheds and feeders. That danged old rooster would tag along just to torment me. I would be quietly sneaking up on the rats and there he would be sneaking up on me. I had to keep one eye on him and one eye on the gun sights. When he got too close I would whack him with the barrel of the gun with the same resulting crow. I don’t know why I didn’t just shoot him.

It got so the worst part was no matter what I did to him, he always crowed when I turned away. I could let him have it and he would crow. Throw water on him, he would crow. One time I shoved him into some sloppy hog manure at the end of a hog pen. Soupy stink covered him from head to toe and when I turned to leave -- he crowed.

Our old shepherd, Rowdy, liked to sleep in the shade during the heat of the day. That old rooster would see Rowdy settling in for a nap and ease over, scratching and pecking, getting closer and closer. Rowdy would slowly get up move over a little and turn his back to the rooster, sighing as he settled back down. Not to be ignored, Roos would ease around to the other side where Rowdy could see him and start over. Ol’ Roos kept it up until, with a groan and a grumpy look, that poor old dog would give up, tuck his tail and slink back to the yard. I was sure that I could hear him grumble under his breath, “stupid rooster.”          

One day Ol’ Roos scratched and pecked his way right into the yard. He started pushing Rowdy around. Rowdy moved away from the rooster and lay back down. Ol’ Roos kept following him and pestering him until that old dog snapped. Rowdy turned on him and let him have it. Ol Roos didn’t know what hit him. Rowdy grabbed that rooster and laid him out flatter than a pancake.

I stood there not believing my eyes, the devil chicken was dead. I no longer have to look over my shoulder. No more chasing me and crowing in victory. After I celebrated for a little while I started feeling bad for poor Ol’ Roos. I went over and rolled him over with my toe. He just lay there -- then got up and staggered out of the yard without so much as a peep let alone a crow.

He never came in the yard again and he never ever pushed Rowdy around again. The rest of us, well we weren’t so lucky. He continued to plague us until he finally died of old age. And I must say we felt great sorrow when that old rooster died -- yeh, right.