Rooster Al – Opening Your Home To A Bird In Need

Last Fall, 2020, was the end to the strangest year we had ever known, and the beginning of life with Rooster Al. When he flew into our lives, he brought with him a new perspective of hope and renewal. It is hard to believe our Al has only been with us a year, or that it is even possible for his tiny, feathered, one-pound frame to hold all the love we have to give him. Here is his story.

Rooster Al’s Arrival

The months leading up to Rooster Al’s first appearance in our yard had not been easy, at least not for me. We were uprooted at the worst possible time during the summer prior. It was my youngest’s senior year and, despite his moving with us initially, he ended up leaving after a month to finish high school living with his dad, which was hard on me. I had accepted a position as a teacher assistant at a public Montessori. The long days of kid wrangling were almost as grueling as the rush-hour traffic I faced every evening just to get home and try to squeeze in a dog walk before dark. Several of our pets had passed within a few short months of the move, two within one week (the same week my son moved out and I started the new job) and I developed a significant health issue that I believe reared its head from all the stress. All in all, things were tough as we faced so many challenges at once.  

When the pandemic hit, and the world entered lockdown mode, it almost felt like a relief to me. Finally, I got to assist students virtually without the exhausting, physical component of the work. There was no more commute or sitting in traffic. But after months of remote learning, our district determined that Covid cases were low enough for teachers, staff, and students to return to the classroom. One November morning last year, as I was getting ready to leave for work, my husband and I spotted what appeared to be a rooster in our back yard enjoying the bird seed that had fallen from the feeder. Our dog, Mazzy, outside at the time, spotted him too and went running playfully towards him. He flew up and over the fence. My husband and I mused over where the little guy might have come from, to where he might be headed, and about the comical, random scene we had just witnessed. I recall telling the kids at school about what I imagined to be a one-time event.

But the random rooster appearances became more frequent and endearing. The dogs got used to him as he blended in with other wildlife in the yard. My husband made a remark that the rooster’s swagger was much like that of John Travolta’s cocky strides in the opening scene of ‘Saturday Night Fever’. I agreed and mentioned another scene in the film in which Travolta’s character is getting gussied up for a night at the disco. ‘Tony’ talks to himself in the mirror as he compares himself to a poster of Al Pacino in the background then scares his grandmother in the hallway chanting, ‘Al Pacino’ dressed in only his underwear. Being very John Travolta like, of course it made perfect sense to call our new friend Al.  

The Rescue

Rooster Al became so comfortable in our yard that besides his daily foraging, he even began sleeping in the vines of the overhanging trees along our back fence line. It came to our attention that he belonged to the neighbors on our right. Al would occasionally hop back over the fence where we saw other chickens being kept. Sometimes Al would roam with a hen. We saw the small flock members tied to wire cages by their legs and understood why he preferred our yard. Eventually, Al was the sole survivor of the flock next door. On the morning of December 18th, we heard his crows coming from the neighbor’s shed. Amidst a crisp, sunny day, our new friend was locked in a dark, windowless space. Al’s panicked calls gained in urgency and seemed meant for our ears. Unsure of what to do and aware of the language barrier between us and the neighbors, we gathered our best cell phone pictures, and a handful of twenty-dollar bills from the nearest ATM. My husband waited in his car for one of the neighbors to emerge from their house. He introduced himself and pointed to Al’s likeness on his phone, stating that he wanted to buy the rooster for me, his wife, who loved the little bird. They agreed to get Al for my husband and accepted $40.00 cash at my husband’s insistence. We tell Al constantly that he is worth infinitely more than what we paid for his freedom. Meanwhile, I had fallen ill after being back in a public-school setting and thought I could have Covid. Although my test was negative, I ended up deciding to leave the position as it was not worth the constant risk of exposure before vaccines were available. Fortunately, we were able to make it on just my husband’s salary for a while and I could be a stay-at-home rooster mom as I prepared for more grad school. 

Rooster Al would become officially ours just three days shy of my husband and I’s ten-year anniversary; the significance of which was not lost on us. A rooster, symbol of vitality and a call to action, had come to wake us, shake us, and to bring us back from the middle-aged rut to which we had recently succumbed. Three years before our traditional wedding in 2013, we had held a private, handfasting ceremony. We wrote our own vows and took them to the James River in Richmond, Virginia, where my husband lived at the time. It was a freezing cold, winter solstice night, complete with a lunar eclipse, under which we professed our love to each other. We couldn’t help but notice that Rooster Al’s arrival had somehow sparked a shift and inspired new, excited conversations about living for the moment and working towards the future in alignment with our dreams together.  

Hawk Attack

I graduated with a master’s in thanatology (the study of death, dying, and bereavement) in the spring of 2020. After a brief stint returning for teacher certification and realizing the field was not for me, I began researching online MSW programs to pair with my previous degree. The pandemic, and the loneliness suffered by Covid patients and their loved ones, spawned my interest in making hospice, end of life care, and memorial services possible via virtual platforms. One morning, as I sat working on grad school essays and applications in my upstairs office, I heard strange squawking and rustling coming from the garden below. I snapped out of my concentration with a jolt, suddenly and horrifyingly aware that the sounds were Rooster Al’s and that he was in danger. I threw open the window to see a Red tailed-hawk fly up to the bare tree in the neighbor’s yard. I ran downstairs and out back to find that Al had been carried off and dropped right beside our shed. As I attempted a quick visual assessment on him, Al slunk beneath the shed in shock. I examined the garden where I had heard the commotion to find huge clumps of feathers, some with bloody skin still attached. I gathered his feathers, cleaned them, and placed them in a vase as a makeshift, healing talisman of sorts. I went back out to kneel, then lie on the ground to softly reassure Al. All I could see was the faint silhouette of his comb dipping ever so slowly lower and lower until he was completely motionless. A house wren darted in and out like a nurse in a hospital trauma ward. My husband and I assumed the worst, that Rooster Al had gone under our shed to die. As there was nothing more to be done, I went for a walk with the dogs. When I returned, I looked under the shed and saw no movement. Just as I had become used to doing every sundown, I went to say goodnight to our wild, little rooster on his vine, in utter denial that he was gone. But when I arrived at Al’s chosen roost, to my surprise, I saw him dutifully perched there! He looked dazed, a little scuffed up, his tail feathers half-gone, but he was there and alive.

Recovery and Resilience

The next few days were a harrowing practice in humility as we realized all that caring for backyard chickens entailed. We had erroneously believed that this little rooster could tough out the elements, find food, water, and shelter on his own without our intervention. After all, we just wanted him to be free to do what he wanted. As someone who had cared for animals of all sorts through my entire life, having raised injured and orphaned birds and wildlife, volunteered with raptors, even having become a certified rehabber, I had to admit that this little rooster was like no other creature I had ever cared for. Rooster Al lied low as he convalesced, barely stirring, barely eating, drinking, and never crowing to the dawn. Again, clueless as to what it might take to help our friend recover from his injuries and trauma, we simply watched and waited, hoping for the best. Eventually, Rooster Al turned a corner and his energy level, appetite, and voice returned despite the distorted quality that now issued through his poor, scarred windpipe. 

Gimme Shelter

We knew we needed to provide Al proper shelter and set to work choosing and ordering a coop. Rooster Al’s new home arrived quickly. My husband and I worked together to clear and level the area Al had chosen in the very back, by the fence, around the tree cover. We- mostly my husband- assembled the coop, which took an entire day. It was a small coop, but perfectly suited to one bantam-sized chicken. It came with a screened-in run, ramp, nest box, and roosting bars. After a substantial downpour, we found that we needed to raise the coop on palettes, which my husband found at the U-Haul store where he rented a truck to retrieve the dozen bales of pine straw we laid down. I installed an eye screw and hook to secure the door to the nest box to safeguard against predators, lined the exterior with plastic to eliminate drafts and leaks through the remainder of the winter, and filled the coop with aspen shavings. Now came the task of figuring out how to get Rooster Al into his shelter at night. 

Having some experience with domestic birds, I knew how to activate their instinct to ‘step up’ onto an outstretched arm. I could only hope this method would be comparably applicable to a wild rooster on a vine. As the sun set, I waited for Rooster Al to settle in for the night. I put on my puffer jacket and readied the coop for Al’s entry. I walked back to the vine and gently nudged my arm against Al’s sleepy breast. He stepped up! More importantly, Al stayed on my arm as I walked the few feet out of the trees and over to the coop. I stooped down and ushered him in, shutting the main door behind him. At first, Rooster Al came running out, down the ramp and into the run. He paced and crowed frantically for the first few nights until he knew the routine. After a few weeks of his becoming acclimated to his new sleeping space, I shut the door to the run for added warmth for him. 

Bonding and Building Trust

Meanwhile, winter days with Rooster Al were cold, wet, and miserable. We would huddle up on the patio table with the space heater my husband bought us. Al would cuddle against the dogs until February, when the elder of the two, Mij, Mazzy’s dad, became so feeble and arthritis-ridden that he had to be put down. He had been accompanying us outside because he could no longer control his bowels or bladder when left unsupervised in the house. After Mij passed, Rooster Al and Mazzy began to develop their profound bond. Al seemed to view Mazzy as his hen all the while believing he was a dog. He learned to follow her to bark with cock-a-doodle-doos at strangers in the cul-de-sac. I would sit at the patio table, bring Al food and water, and we would look at tarot cards together. Perhaps as a highly visual creature, Al was naturally intrigued by art, imagery, patterns, mirrors (or any reflective surfaces), laptops and cell phones. I started posting our tarot readings on social media. Al would literally peck the cards, I would interpret the meanings, and the messages were always uncannily accurate. We soon amassed an eclectic following of virtual friends. We still enjoy reading the cards although we have long since graduated from them being the ‘conversation starter’ in our budding relationship that they once were. Now Al flips the cards over all by himself.

As the weather grew milder, Al would lie in the sun on our picnic mat, or with me in the hammock. He also learned that Mazzy would not object to his hopping up on her as she lounged. He met family members and friends. He was always very adaptable. Whenever he showed signs of being ‘protective’ of me or his turf, I would simply scoop him up. My advice to others was to reach out as though they wanted to hold him to call his bluff. No tough guy wants to be coddled. 

A House Rooster is Born

Rooster Al first ventured into our house when there was a tornado warning. He was visibly distraught, and we opened the door and took shelter in the downstairs rec room together. Al was, to my surprise (although I am not sure why I was surprised), incredibly calm and collect. He walked with refined steps through the rooms as though he were visiting a fine art museum. Well-mannered as he was, it would only be a few short weeks later that he would move into the people’s coop with us.

When the Fourth of July rolled around, Rooster Al was acclimated to being carried to his coop at bedtime. My husband went to try his hand at the routine that I had established, when suddenly Rooster Al went into a fit, flapping and squawking. My husband felt guilty as if he had done something to upset Al. Turns out, Al was just frightened by the fireworks that neighborhood folks had been setting off the night before. We knew for sure this was the case when the following night, Al outright refused to be put into his coop. It had been my understanding that roosters sleep soundly and are not roused by anything once they settle in for the night. While this may hold true for eating and drinking, it clearly did not apply to the bright lights and booming sounds from explosions in the sky. From July 5th onward, Al would sleep in the bedroom, on my clothes dresser, first in a bin of aspen shavings, then a drawer, when he seemed to want to grasp a ledge with his feet. The bin remains beside the drawer for times Rooster Al wants to play like a little boy in a bath, sound effects and all. 

Life with a Rooster

Had anyone told me that one day I would come to share my home with a rooster, I would have probably laughed in their face… hysterically. It isn’t something we typically plan for as sensible adults. But when you find yourself with a newly empty nest, family pets aging and passing away, and working from home during a global pandemic, you might discover that a house rooster is just the unexpected plot twist to your life you didn’t know you needed until it happens. At least that was my experience. 

As a mom, I can attest to what I have read, that chickens have the IQ equivalent of a 4-year-old child. Rooster Al is endlessly curious, talkative, affectionate, and playful in his own way. Empty Amazon boxes are a huge hit to jump up on and slide off. Al has easily adapted to daily routines and schedules. He even rides in a screened-in pet stroller through the neighborhood with his favorite friend, Mazzy, alongside him, on walks. While I initially avoided bringing a chicken inside due to what I imagined would be “messy”, I found the opposite to be true; clean-up couldn’t be easier. As with every other situation that arose, we figured things out through trial and error. I found that placing recycled, packing paper under eating areas and dirt baths can just be rolled up and discarded. Rooster Al is an ideal companion animal. I can’t sing the praises of chickens any louder; I am absolutely smitten with their kind, and I am totally in love with this amazing little bird who is more like a baby Phoenix than poultry. I can’t wait to see what magic our next year with Rooster Al will hold.