A Rooster Worthy of His Name

? ^V ? /\!,y//Vi ft f"h 4 A Rooster Worthy of His Name by Jonas Hollon To look at him, Chandler was just an breed was concerned, Chandler was ordinary rooster. But looks can be de- pretty close to a Barred Plymouth Rock, ceiving; he was not ordinary. As far as but it must be understood that Kentucky 51 mountain chickens don't carry pedigree papers around with them. Chandler was an orphan. A chicken hawk took care of his mother, and a severe summer thunderstorm wiped out all other members of his family. My two younger brothers and I rescued him from a clump of wet weeds and raised him as a pet. Mr. A. B. "Happy" Chandler was the governor of Kentucky at the time of our pet's christening, and since we were a patriotic Democrat family, the pet rooster received the highest name in the state. All of his life he carried the Chandler name with honor, letting it fall into dishonor only through circumstances beyond his control or through plain, simple convenience. We three youngsters taught Chandler the skills we felt all good roosters should know. We taught him that it was proper rooster etiquette to ride any time he could on any conveyance which happened to be available at the moment. He would ride for hours in the bed of our toy truck. Unfortunately, he soon grew too large for that. From the toy truck, he graduated to riding behind us as we bounced dangerously down the steep hill in front of our house on a wooden wagon. Strangely, when the wagon spilled its driver onto the rough road, Chandler somehow managed to remain on board. Horseback riding was probably Chandler 's favorite nonviolent sport. He would stand on the horse's rump and ride for miles. Of course Chandler enjoyed this more than the horse did. The poor old horse just could not get used to six sharp toenails jabbing him in the back. He would try to dislodge the pesky rooster by swishing him with his tail, but to my knowledge he never once succeeded. While Chandler was still trainable, we taught him one of his most delightful skills-fighting. At least to Chandler fighting was delightful, but as he became more skillful and grew into a seven pound missile, his prowess was not so delightful to anyone who happened to walk too close to his territory. Although he hung out around the house most of the time, he still found time to spend with others of his kind. He was definitely "king" of the barnyard . All the hens adored him, and he was the very epitome of a roosterly gentleman. He led his female flock around the farm, calling to them fondly whenever he found some tasty morsel of food. He used his fighting abilities to rid himself of all rival roosters. Usually they remained at a safe distance, but if one ventured too close to his harem, that intruder staggered away, completely dispirited , minus several feathers and sporting a badly mutilated comb. At first, Chandler fought only when provoked by his ever eager trainers. We trained him by wrapping a burlap bag around our arm and teasing him until he attacked. The trainer then repelled the attack and tempted the rooster to try again and again. This continued until Chandler became disinterested and strutted away toward his ever-admiring females . The next day he would be back, ready for another bout. In time he became more skillful than his trainers, who often left the training session bearing painful evidence of his competence. Consequently, we discarded the burlap arm wrap in favor of a long stick wrapped with several layers of rags. Chandler enjoyed this new method immensely and became even more capable . Soon, any person carrying anything that even resembled a stick, De it a hoe, an ax, a shovel, or a pitchfork, was reason enough for Chandler to attack. My sisters carried several scars on their legs to remind them that he meant business . Ma, though, was always able to outguess or to outmaneuver him. He usually left her alone, but whenever their paths crossed, just to show her...