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| Geronimo, 2017 |
In the spring of 2016, our small homestead bustled with the arrival of twenty lively chicks. Their purpose was twofold: some would grow to become sustenance for our dogs, and others for us. Despite common beliefs about the combative nature of roosters raised together, our flock lived in surprising harmony.
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| Chicken pen 2016 |
However, the tranquility was short-lived. Our ongoing construction projects forced me to relocate the birds. This sudden change disrupted their peace, leading to inevitable squabbles as they re-established their pecking order. After a brief period of turmoil, order and peace returned to the coop.
For a month, the chickens thrived, roaming and pecking in contentment. But as time passed, the necessity of farm life took hold, and I began the difficult process of butchering them. Some adventurous birds escaped the fenced area, only to fall prey to our ever-watchful dogs. Gradually, the flock dwindled until only one formidable rooster remained.
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| Geronimo and Atenea |
This lone survivor, untouched by any predator, seemed to command an air of authority. Our dogs, usually fearless, would scamper away at his approach. Initially, I doubted my husband’s tales of this rooster’s intimidation. But it wasn’t long before I witnessed his reign of terror myself. He menaced my children and chased away anyone who dared come close, except for me. For reasons unknown, he seemed to hold a peculiar respect for me.
We began to call him, somewhat humorously, Geronimo—the last of the roosters. He strutted around with the pride of a warrior, a solitary king in his diminished domain.
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| Geronim watching over Atenea and Amina, and the fidler on the roof |
Then, one chilly winter day, while I was sweeping the floor with a broom, Geronimo launched a surprise attack from behind. Instinctively, I swung the broomstick, striking him. Regret flooded me immediately, but the damage was done. The next day, we found Geronimo lifeless, his reign ended by a tragic accident.
As I looked at his still form, a pang of sorrow hit me. He had been more than just a rooster; he was a fierce guardian and an unyielding spirit. In his death, the coop felt emptier, not just in numbers but in spirit.
R.I.P. Geronimo, the rooster who ruled with an iron beak. 🐔👑