The Travails of Cocky-Do
A few years ago, friends gifted us with their extra rooster, Charlie. He started out life as their cosseted
pet pullet Charlotte. Then as he matured, his sexual identity became clear.
He grew into the image of the splendid rooster decorations found in farmhouse-themed kitchens
throughout the land. In the midst of his colorful red presence, he managed to maintain his sweet
personality. Based upon my profound distrust of free-ranging roosters, he graced our electrified
poultry-netting pen, with several hens for company. He was literally a hen-pecked husband, standing
aside for the girls to grab the choicest morsels.
Our two-year-old granddaughter Sara christened Charlie “Cocky-Do” in toddler-speak. During chores
most mornings, after I unplugged the fence, I would lift her over the netting ahead of me. Although
approaches from the neighbor’s visiting rooster had sparked tears, she would charge confidently
through Cocky-Do’s domain, looking for the eggs the hens worked hard to hide.