The Time My Family (Inadvertently) Held a Cock Fight

Through a series of questionable decisions made on the part of all three members of our household, we became the owners of a herd of chickens. 

Now to appreciate this story, there are a few things you must first understand when it comes to yard chickens. First of all, baby chicks are incredibly cheap. At the time this story was taking place, our local feed store was selling them for 98 cents. A person should not be able to buy a living creature for 98 cents, but I don’t set chicken prices so my opinion on the cost of tiny baby birds is irrelevant.  Another thing you must know about baby chickens is this: it is almost impossible to tell whether a baby chicken is male or female. And that is RELEVANT information. If you are a person who wants to “have chickens,” you need approximately one rooster to every ten hens.  So, if you go down to the feed store with a $20 bill, the likelihood is that you will come home with 10 hens and 10 roosters.  And roosters are highly territorial and do not like to share their ladies. So now you’re left with 9 extra roosters you have to rehome.  That is why these creatures are 98 cents. Long story short, if you buy chickens for a buck, it’s likely you do not end up with the ideal ratio of hens to roosters.  

After some trial and error, we ended up with what was an acceptable ratio of about 8 hens and 2 roosters. I distinctly remember their being two because one had a faulty biological clock that caused him to crow a wakeup call between 2 and 3am, but I digress. 

So one day, my mom is riding her horse down the road when she encounters a man who stops her. 

“¿Tienes pollo?” The man inquired of my mom. 

You don’t live your entire life in southeast Texas without learning at least a little bit of Spanish, so my mom replied, “Si, tengo pollo.” 

(“Do you have chickens?” “Yes, I have chickens.”)

Through some broken Spanglish, my mom managed to gather that this man had adopted a chicken that he had intended to keep as a pet. Unfortunately for him, he was a ranch hand who lived in a house owned by the rancher who would not allow him to keep a free-range chicken in his home. So my mom agreed to take what she assumed was a full-grown hen.  

What the man brought over was a small, juvenile rooster-the kind used for cockfighting. 

“Soon, I will bathe in the blood of my enemies.”

Despite having what was already a dangerously rooster-heavy ratio of (fully grown) chickens, my parents accepted this new addition. My dad plopped the tiny bird into the chicken enclosure and soon, all hell broke loose. 

The two roosters quickly and violently lunged at the new one and after a few moments, even the mild-mannered hens got in on the carnage. Feathers flew. Squawks pierced the quiet afternoon. Blood began to spill onto the hard earth. The chickens were absolutely destroying the new guy. 

Not one to watch an animal in peril, my dad dashed into the chicken enclosure and scooped up the tiny bleeding bird, kicking away the chickens who were angrily determined to keep up the fight. 

Holding a tiny bleeding cock-fighting rooster, my dad had a decision to make. He did what any rational country boy would do…he found an old horse trough and built him a “safe space” where he could recover peacefully.  My dad fed him every day and carefully nursed him back to health. We named him Pepe. Pretty soon, Pepe had recovered enough that he could hop out of the shallow horse trough and go about whatever business a free-range chicken goes about. 

We didn’t dare attempt to put Pepe back with the other chickens. He had grown into a formidable, angry bird (and not the kind that you launch playfully at pigs).  Not really knowing what to do with Pepe, we all just sort of just let him be. Which would have been fine except that Pepe held a grudge. We soon learned that he had really internalized his childhood trauma and become, well, kind of an asshole. And he took it out on us. 

Imagine being chased by this absolute nightmare fuel

Imagine this guy running at you full speed, murder in his eyes and a thirst for blood in his heart.

Pretty soon, no one could walk through the yard without being violently attacked by an angry rooster. He had his choice of anywhere on our six acres to stake his claim…so naturally, he chose our back porch. Pepe guarded that porch with his life. Anyone who went in or out of our house was clearly a threat…and a target. My dad and I soon realized that the best way to defend oneself against an angry rooster attack, was to shoot Pepe with the water hose when he was attempting to attack. After a few times getting shot in the face with a water hose, Pepe decided that we were not worth the effort. My mom; however, never quite got the hang of this tactic and was still constantly a target for his aggression.

After he had been absent from his guard on the porch for a while, I assumed Pepe had learned his lesson and focused his bird-business elsewhere on the property.  

“I haven’t seen Pepe for a while. I guess he finally learned his lesson,” I told my mom one day. 

“He learned alright,” my mom said, “I shot him.” 

“With the water hose?”

“No, with my Beretta.”