Darren* showed up at my house, one frosty Saturday morning a few years ago. He’d answered my ad on Gumtree – Wyandotte Rooster, Giveaway, Excess to Needs. We’d messaged back and forwards a few times, set up a time and day, and there I was, locking my dogs inside and heading out to hand off a rooster.
A rooster, I might add, who had been VERY unhappy about being caught the night before, and screamed as he was unceremoniously dumped into a nice large box, lined with pine shavings, and nicely poked air holes. How DARE I lay hands on the VERY ROOSTERIEST ROOSTER WHO EVER EXISTED.
He had high opinions of himself, despite being smaller and lower down the pecking order than the rooster I was keeping. But that’s chickens – they all have very high opinions of themself.
Normally rooster handovers are a quick and simple affair – someone shows up, I hand them a squawking box, they thank me and leave. I’ve done it plenty, and I wasn’t expecting Darren to be any different.
“Hi, how are you, here’s your rooster, all boxed up.”
“Oh, he’s in a box?” Darren says, and starts trying to open the (taped shut) box.
“Um – he’s not tame? Like, he’ll come up for a bucket of food, but you can’t just pick him up.”
I’m watching nervously as Darren’s hand starts diving into the box, hunting, as the rooster frantically scurries around the corners and screeches at us a little bit.
“Mate.” I am firm now. “If you let him out, I will not be able to catch him again today, and you will have wasted a trip.”
“Ah” says Darren. “I guess I’ll just leave him in there then.”
“Yeah, please? I gave him a preventative treatment for mites and lice last night, just in case, so he’s all good to go!”
I am chirpy here – my rooster handoff is almost done. I can go and have a cup of tea and get out of this freezing air.
Darren has other ideas. “Are you the quail lady? You’ve got quail, right? Can I see?”
Sure thing. We leave the rooster in his box, and head out to the paddock to have a look at some of my young quail. It’s about now I notice the thongs which have been duct taped to Darren’s feet, as he walks through my ankle high frosted grass, bare toes showing. Don’t get me wrong, who among us has not duct taped a pair of shoes back together in order to make it to payday, get a little further, stretch a little longer? I’m not judging, but it’s definitely an interesting choice on this winter morning.
We chat quail for a bit, and chickens, and Tasmania. Darren’s face is marked in the way that poverty, and hard living, and Tasmanian Bush Life leaves its mark on the faces of people who spend their time cutting wood and making a living from their hands.
And then, his phone rings, and I’m pretty sure I’m watching a drug deal get organised for later on in the day.
“Mate, mate! Where are you!” the man on the other end of the phone is a bit frantic. “I thought you’d be home!”
“Nah man, I’m just picking up some chickens. Later, yeah? Later. I’ll be home later.”
“But MATE, I need you now? Now. Fucken hell, I thought you’d be home.”
I’m trying not to look judgey, or Very Middle Class, or upset – all things I am very much not – although I am DEEPLY AMUSED by the conversation. Like, dying inside, because COME ON.
“Man, just calm down. I’ll be there by lunch. I’m just up Oatlands**. You can wait, yeah? Fucking hell man.”
Darren hangs up and looks at me, like he’s just realised I am still standing there, holding a quail, waiting for him to be done, so I can be done.
“Just a mate, yeah? I uh, promised I’d do something for him…” Darren trails off.
“Yeah, I know how that goes. I guess… rooster? Time? Yeah?”
Yes. Yes. We head back to my BBQ area to grab the rooster and I am freezing cold and so so close to a hot cup of tea when Darren asks if I want to see the other chickens in his car.
And Internet, it feels so dodgy, but we are in my own yard, with my big barky dogs just inside the door, and two children in the bedroom RIGHT THERE ready to grab my husband if I need to scream or make a fuss, so I make what feels like a terrible decision and walk out to the driveway, to see the other chickens in Darren’s car.
No word of a lie, Darren has five very nice purebred Rhode Island Red chickens in the car. He proudly tells me he just paid $150 for the four hens and a rooster, who are just standing free. Looking stressed. In the back seat. Shitting EVERYWHERE.
“Yeah, I was gonna just let your boy out in there with them…”
“NO! Please. Leave him in the box! I can’t risk… god. I do NOT want to have to catch him again, please.”
So Darren, who it turns out thinks boxes and cages and any form of safe animal transportation device are cruel, finally agrees, and quickly opens the back door, shoves my rooster onto the back seat (still safely boxed, thank god), and slams the door shut.
But not before the smell of chicken coops and stressed bird shit wafts over me. It is An Experience.
Apparently Darren is not worried about roosters jumping on him while he’s driving. I can barely keep my mouth shut and this time I am absolutely judging, because what kind of person just lets five chooks roam free in their car, shitting everywhere and trying to jump at the windows?
Darren does.
I expect my rooster ended up living a decent life – he was used to free ranging and Darren didn’t believe in pens, or coops, or locking chickens up. He was buying and selling chooks to make a bit of extra money, and my wyandotte rooster was going to be introduced to some nice wyandotte hens. I’m not sure how Darren planned on keeping them all purebred, considering the lack of fences, and the other roosters hanging around, but hey, better than soup, right?
*not his real name **not where I actually live
(Not the rooster I was giving away. Also not wyandottes.)
