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Years ago, we noticed a couple Peacocks and a chicken appeared in the neighborhood. Obviously "dumped" by someone rationalizing "a nice farmer will take them in" (one of the cruelest acts a human can do to a domestic animal).
The Peacocks lasted about two weeks until the Coyotes did what they do. The chicken held out.
I was in the yard firing a blackpowder percussion pistol, and that little chicken (a Bantam Rooster: "Banty" as called by some) came running down the hill, across my pasture at full speed toward me, wings down as if charging in for a fight. He took up a position around my feet, pecking gravel and looking up at me, clucking.
After yelling toward the kitchen to the girl, "Hey! Want breakfast?" I decided to continue my target practice, just knowing that'd send the little feller packing.
It didn't. He kept near my feet and would cock his head up and look at me and cluck. I relented and tossed him a handfull of horse grain.
"Custer" lived to be a VERY old chicken. Named so because he came over the hill into a hail of gunfire. Most probably some kid's Easter pet as a chick, he was hand-tame and visiting children could pick him up anytime and carry him around like a ragdoll. When the hounds would lay on their sides on the deck sleeping in the sun, Custer would LAY ON HIS SIDE right next to them, basking.
He was also a slave-owner. He'd take a vantage point on the deck, surveying his "plantation". The Robins would come in to "work the field" (lawn) for worms. When one would start yanking on a nightcrawler, Custer would bail off the deck and charge at full speed and reap his profits from free labor. Then he'd hop back on the deck, and resume his "overseer" position.
He'd come in the house regularly, was fascinated by the television, awaiting a bird (of any type) to come on the screen, then get his hackles up and growl. Kids thought that was pretty cool, flipping through the channels to find another bird for him.
When he passed, we gave him a formal military funeral complete with 21-gun salute, and a flag-draped gilded (gold krylon) coffin. He is buried in the front yard right where he'd post himself under the bird feeder, with a headstone that is a precise replica of that marking the spot where his namesake fell at the Little Big Horn.
In the springtime (like now) when the Robins are out, I miss him.
The Peacocks lasted about two weeks until the Coyotes did what they do. The chicken held out.
I was in the yard firing a blackpowder percussion pistol, and that little chicken (a Bantam Rooster: "Banty" as called by some) came running down the hill, across my pasture at full speed toward me, wings down as if charging in for a fight. He took up a position around my feet, pecking gravel and looking up at me, clucking.
After yelling toward the kitchen to the girl, "Hey! Want breakfast?" I decided to continue my target practice, just knowing that'd send the little feller packing.
It didn't. He kept near my feet and would cock his head up and look at me and cluck. I relented and tossed him a handfull of horse grain.
"Custer" lived to be a VERY old chicken. Named so because he came over the hill into a hail of gunfire. Most probably some kid's Easter pet as a chick, he was hand-tame and visiting children could pick him up anytime and carry him around like a ragdoll. When the hounds would lay on their sides on the deck sleeping in the sun, Custer would LAY ON HIS SIDE right next to them, basking.
He was also a slave-owner. He'd take a vantage point on the deck, surveying his "plantation". The Robins would come in to "work the field" (lawn) for worms. When one would start yanking on a nightcrawler, Custer would bail off the deck and charge at full speed and reap his profits from free labor. Then he'd hop back on the deck, and resume his "overseer" position.
He'd come in the house regularly, was fascinated by the television, awaiting a bird (of any type) to come on the screen, then get his hackles up and growl. Kids thought that was pretty cool, flipping through the channels to find another bird for him.
When he passed, we gave him a formal military funeral complete with 21-gun salute, and a flag-draped gilded (gold krylon) coffin. He is buried in the front yard right where he'd post himself under the bird feeder, with a headstone that is a precise replica of that marking the spot where his namesake fell at the Little Big Horn.
In the springtime (like now) when the Robins are out, I miss him.
