One of our four roosters is not well. I think there is a chance he might die.

(Don’t get me started as to why we even have four roosters.)

The rooster in question is one of two who regularly attack me. They’re both the same breed and roughly the same size.  I have dubbed them Adolf and Heinrich. Adolf is the more impervious of the two. He stands back and waits to strike while my back is turned. Heinrich is the more outwardly aggressive one. He runs toward me as I approach, his collar fanned to full protrusion, as he tries to bite my legs. I don’t like  this bird.  I”ve managed to keep him back with a stick — sometimes beating him with it — while shielding my legs with a 5-gallon water bucket. It’s like a battle in Braveheart, the barnyard version: “You can’t take away my freeeeedom!”

But lately, Heinrich has been getting more aggressive. He doesn’t seem to mind getting hit with a stick anymore. He no longer backs away, but stands his ground. So I’ve been using Cowboy, my 10-year old border collie, as my bodyguard.

All I have to say is, “Get him, Cowboy!” and Cowboy lunges after Heinrich, as if  the rooster were a Frisbee. For some reason, Cowboy knows not to attack the bird for real, but snap at him and snarl and more or less keep him away from me. To Cowboy, it’s more like a game.

Well, I think Cowboy — or some other creature — actually bit Heinrich while my back was turned because the rooster has been limping on one leg for four days now. He has no energy. He’s docile and lethargic. Jake and I picked him up inspect his leg, but we couldn’t see a scratch on him. I’ve been manually picking him up and setting him in one of the nesting boxes each night so his body is off the ground, which is a bird’s natural instinct. He’s been eating and drinking intermittently but I fear the worst.

And it’s cold outside and snowing. I’m not sure Heinrich will have the strength to survive another snow storm.

I expressed my concerns to Jake over dinner last night, and he said, “I thought you hated that bird. I thought you’d be glad if he was dead.”

“I said I wanted him dead. I didn’t say I wanted him to suffer.” Meaning, I wouldn’t mind if he was dispatched, swiftly and cleanly, with a butcher’s knife, I don’t want him to endure long stretches of pain and possible infection.

Jake: “Animals die. You gotta get used to it.”

I guess I never realized how Darwinian my husband could be. He thinks that if a bird becomes sick or injured, it might as well drop dead because  it’s no longer fit to live among the healthy birds. But isn’t it our job as stewards of our animals to care for our flock, our whole flock, in sickness and in health? Even if Heinrich is a horrible little nazi, he’s still one of the flock.

Speaking of which….I should probably go check on him.