When I'd last said goodnight to Roosevelt, he was walking up the center line of Thomas Run in the pitch black night. There was nothing we could do. I'd given up hope of his survival through the night.

The next morning at six a.m., I wasn't' awakened by the morning light, or a sleepy-headed child, but I greeted my morning to the sound of a rooster crowing, right outside my bedroom window. Over and over again, he crowed. And I listened as he made his way around the house. Crowing. And crowing. I laid in bed and waited. Waited to hear the sound of little feet and whining voices, awakened by Roosevelt's march around the house. But by some supernatural act of God, they slept through the whole escapade. Thank goodness for sound machines.

By this time, I was beginning to hint to Dan that maybe the rooster wasn't meant to be part of our little farm. That maybe he needed to go back home. We decided to give him a few more nights and if he didn't start behaving, we'd send him back to Mr. Adams.

The next evening, when we locked in the chickens, Roosevelt was MIA. Nowhere to be found, not even in any of his usual, though annoying roosting places.

There was nothing we could do. We called it a night.

That morning, concerned that I was sleeping in way too long and wasting my day, Roosevelt began his crowing at 5:15. And he obviously wanted me, and the rest of the household to know that he'd made it through one more night without the safety of the coop. So he began his crowing campaign around the house. 

And then I sent that email. The rooster must go.

The next evening, was a repeat of the one before, but one thing differed. Around 2a.m, I heard clucking and squawking outside my bedroom window. I clutched my hands over my ears and elbowed Dan, who was still sound asleep despite the ruckus.

"Dan!!! Roosevelt is getting eaten! Get out there and stop it! Please!!"

But Dan, the man of few words (in the middle of the night) and lots of common sense said something along the lines of, "It's too late now. If I stop it mid-way through, then he's going to be hurt and I'm going to have to put him out of his misery. There's nothing you can do about it." 

I slowly inched my hands away from my ears and forced myself to listen to Roosevelt's last clucks which now sounded like they were coming from across the road. I hated to think it, but I figured a fox was dragging him away.

Then, I began to worry about the ducks.

At the same moment, Dan realized that if it was indeed a fox, he needed to get out there with his gun to prevent him from coming back and making a smorgasbord out of the other chickens, the ducks or even one of the cats.

I snuck downstairs to the dark kitchen and watched Dan out the window as he sat quiet and still on the back deck, gun loaded and aimed into the yard. The full moon cast long dark shadows of silver and gray across the grass. It was a perfect night to look for foxes.

Eventually I went back up to bed, hoping I wouldn't hear any gun shots, but anxious to hear that all three ducks were accounted for.

When he came back to bed, he told me that the ducks were fine and that they'd probably be much smarter in the morning. I had no idea what he meant, until he explained that he had taken the kitchen radio and put it out on the deck by the ducks. It was playing a radio station where a deep, soothing-voiced man read the Bible through the wee hours of the night. Ironically, the radio would most likely be our ducks salvation--the sound of a human's voice keeping away any predators.

That morning, there was no crowing.

When my eyes opened and I realized it was past the normal crowing hours, I then knew that Roosevelt had been eaten that night. We knew it was inevitable. In this area, a chicken can only stay unprotected for so long before it is discovered and gobbled up.

I felt a pang of sadness for the way Roosevelt had to die, but I also felt like we'd done everything we could. Our rooster interventions had failed. He didn't want our help.

And now, everything was back to normal. Just six little hens and three little ducks.

However, Roosevelt still had more story to tell.

That afternoon, I was out running errands when my cell phone rang. It was Emma.

"MOM! YOU WILL NEVER BELIEVE THIS! The neighbors up the road just called and said our rooster is running around their farm!"

Apparently Roosevelt didn't get eaten, and whatever frightened him off his roost sent him dashing up the road, across cornfields, through the woods, to a neighbor's farm. I even clocked the distance--it was at least half a mile.

That afternoon, Dan headed up to their house with a chicken crate in the back of the farm truck to find Roosevelt and bring him home. A few minutes later the girls and I followed in case it would be necessary to round him up and corner him somewhere on their farm.

But Roosevelt was nowhere to be found.

We left empty-handed. No rooster. No Roosevelt.

Either Roosevelt now belongs to the people and farms and homes of Thomas Run. Or he belongs to heaven.

And I suppose, that's the end of the story.

I'll keep you posted. Though I wouldn't be surprised to hear a crowing outside my window one of these mornings, when Roosevelt decides to make his way back up Thomas Run to his first home. Or, for that matter, a yellow taxicab to stop at the end of the lane and drop him off.

Poor Roosevelt.

[photo by katie pertiet --who's addicted to photographing my chickens]

Late last week, I sent my husband an email. The subject line said, "the rooster...". When he opened up the email, I finished my thought, "...must go."

The rooster must go.

But I suppose I'm getting ahead of myself. Let me back up in the story to explain how I got to this place.

Two weeks ago, my husband made one of his typical stops to drop off tractor parts for a local farmer. Before he stopped at the farm we talked, "This will be quick. I doubt he'll even be home. I won't be long." 

As darkness began to fall and it had been more than an hour since our conversation, I began to wonder. I figured the farmer must have been home after all, and knowing Dan they were deep in some conversation about crops or tractors or what farmers on the eastern shore were up to. Either that, or he was belly-up underneath a tractor, up to his elbows in grease, putting on the parts himself.

A few minutes later, the porch door flung open and Emma collapsed into my lap in tears. She and Mary had been with Dan for his delivery.

"Daddy brought home a rooster!"

I rolled my eyes. "A rooster?"

"Yes! Mr. Adams gave Daddy one of his roosters. He's putting it in the coop with the chickens. I don't want a mean old rooster!"

I had to confess, I didn't really want a mean old rooster either. I already lucked out with our last one. And I was feeling pretty content with our little clutch of hens.

When Dan got inside he explained what had happened, that the farmer had too many roosters, that he offered one to us, that he was such a beautiful, friendly rooster.

Emma told me the story of how the farmer had tucked the rooster's head under his wing, rocked him back and forth a few times in his arms and put him to sleep. She told me how he laid him down in the grass and he just stayed there sound asleep.

I asked Dan where this new rooster was now and he told me he had slipped him into the dark coop with the chickens.

Just a few days before, I had been reading a book and oddly enough the author mentioned her father's technique for introducing a new chicken to the flock. The book, obviously, has nothing to do with chickens. But I had mentioned the technique to Dan and he decided to give it a try. Slip the new chicken (or in this case, rooster) into the coop once it is dark and everyone is roosting. And in the morning, they wake up, see the new addition and figure he must have been there all along and they never noticed. And everyone gets along smashingly.

And I have to confess, the technique worked.

But still the rooster had not won us over. Emma and I were still skeptical and pretty sure we weren't interested in having a rooster.

That is, until the next morning when we heard his faint crowing from the coop. We were both outside when we heard it. We looked at each other, smiled and declared together, "Hey, I kind of like this!"

And then, we went to see him. And boy, Dan was right. He was a good-lookin' boy.

Alright. He could stay.

That evening, when it was time to lock in the chickens, we took a count. Six hens. No rooster. We searched around the sheds, inside the stone barn and couldn't find him anywhere. Finally we found him in the wood shed, roosting on the rungs of one of Dan's ladders. Much to the rooster's distress, Dan carried him over to the coop and locked him in for the night.

We figured he was still learning the ropes and didn't remember how to get back to the safety of his shed.

The next night, same thing. This time, we found the rooster roosting in a different shed deep down inside a box of kindling we'd been starting to collect for the winter. And this time, he wasn't as easy to catch. But we did and he got a personal escort back to the coop.

Third night. Same story. No rooster.

Except this time, when Dan went to catch him, he was absolutely, positively not interested in being carried off to the coop. He took flight. He panicked. He dashed around the yard, under trees, behind sheds, around the house....and finally straight up the center line of Thomas Run.

Finally, as the darkness really began to thicken we gave up. There was nothing we could do. We left the chicken as he ran up the road towards the neighbor's house. I wondered what the next car driving up the road would think when their headlights caught a large red rooster in a mad dash up the pavement.

I went to bed convinced he wouldn't make it through the night, but I had to admit, I didn't have much sympathy for the rooster we'd now named, "Roosevelt.". You can only offer a rooster so much help, but if he doesn't want to accept it, there's not much you can do.

There's more to this story, but this is getting awful long-winded and long....the rest of the story, tomorrow.

I know I'm going to have a hard time going to sleep tonight.

I just got an update in my inbox from Susan's Martha's Vineyard Fiber Farm blog. Seriously, this might be the biggest-ever blog-land giveaway. You can go check it out, but the nuts and bolts are this: She's giving away a small starter flock of angora goats as well as a custom-built run-in shed, shipped to the winner.

And it's an essay contest.

And if you've been following my blog for any length of time, chances are you probably know that I grew up raising lambs. And I have a serious sweet spot for them. And of all the things that I want to add to the Thomas Run menagerie--lambs are number one, above and beyond, top of my list. (And for the record, they're at the top of the girls' list, too. Even above a pony. Do you know we often take the long way home, just to pass our favorite sheep farm?)

But these aren't sheep. They're goats. What do I know about goats? Even goats that look like sheep.

But a starter flock?! And a shed?! And Susan will even throw in some consulting to help get you started?!

And did you know there's a spinning wheel sitting up in my grandmother's bedroom?

And did you know that my one goal for this winter was to finally sit down with her and ask her to teach me how to spin? I missed that chance.

But there are still other ways to learn. I know.

But then, reality comes crashing in. And I remember that we still have no fencing.

And we still have no money for fencing.

And we still own that stupid house in Wisconsin that is sucking all the money out of our pockets.

And I think that maybe this just isn't my time.

But I'm still thinking.

Gosh, am I thinking....