The Rural Voice, 1991-12, Page 43NOTEBOOK
HOW DAD SAVED THE PRIZE ROOSTER
by Lyle Fraser
Never slam the door of a hen house
on a chicken's leg. The outcome
could be disastrous!
This fact of life I discovered one
beautiful spring morning while hurry-
ing through my farm chores. Ten-
year -olds often have their minds in the
clouds, and it so happened that mental
plans for my pending birthday party
seemed to be taking preference over
poultry affairs when the catastrophe
occurred. To my dismay I soon dis-
covered that this wasn't just any old
chicken! There — lying in a crimson
pool of its own making — was my
father's prize rooster, its leg severed
just below the knee joint.
Nobody in the neighbourhood had
ever heard of a Bufforpington until
our family introduced the breed.
When my father noticed a pair of blue
ribbon winners pictured in an eastern
poultry publication, nothing could
deter him from acquiring them. Al-
though money in depression years was
as scarce as summer frost, he managed
to scrape up enough to purchase the
prize winners through mail order. Be-
fore long, we were stocking our incu-
bator, intent upon the future sale of
Bufforpington breeders. It wasn't his
plan to become fabulously wealthy
from his new undertaking, but he
hoped this venture would add further
to his stature as a progressive farmer
(which he was in many ways).
And now! Tragedy! What could I
say? What feeble excuse could I
dream up for my clumsiness?
There was no time for excuses
after my father got wind of the com-
motion. He dropped his wood-
working tools, stampeded to the scene
of the carnage, and flew into action.
"Climb into the loft and grab a
handful of cobwebs — a thick
handful!"
"Cobwebs?"
"Don't just stand there gawking!
Move!"
I suspected that he was a little
upset and in no mood for further
discussion as I leaped for the ladder
and scrambled up monkey -style. How
he knew that cobweb was the perfect
cauterizer I never learned, but in gig
time the bleeding ceased, and that old
rooster, despite his amputation, looked
like he was ready for action again.
Now when you're only 10 years
old and countrified, it's not always
easy to fathom the resourcefulness of
your father, nor the wisdom of his
actions. "Why?" I asked myself re-
peatedly, as I scattered feed into the
patient's private cage each morning,
"would anyone be foolhardy enough
to keep a one -legged rooster?"
It was true that the initial invest-
ment stretched the family's finances,
but isn't it better, when you gamble
and lose, to cut your losses and start
over?
My father apparently didn't sub-
scribe to this line of reasoning, and in
my precarious position after the acci-
dent, I wasn't about to get in any
deeper with my juvenile suggestions.
He patiently observed the victim's
progress, and I assumed deep down he
was shrewdly scheming to compensate
for his loss.
Easter Holidays! Ten days in the
city with my grandparents, and no
chickens to feed! Then the home-
coming surprise! When I spotted the
open slide door on Buffie's empty
cage, I feared the inevitable. Was the
family's prize possession to be the
main course of Sunday's dinner?
When my dad beckoned me out-
side, winked, and pointed mischie-
vously at the chicken run, I raised a
curious eyebrow.
There he stood, as proud and as
boisterous as ever! Old Buffie, at ease
amongst his harem — perfectly
poised! His one natural leg scratching
away at the feed on the ground, the
other, a three -pronged maple cutting
spliced expertly to his stump by
leather thongs — the artful product of
my smiling and resourceful father.0
(Lyle Fraser is a writer from Pitt
Meadows, BC.)
40 THE RURAL VOICE