Long Live Mike Crowe II

Mike Crowe had very strong opinions.

Chief among them was that every hen belonged to him, every human needed supervising, and every dog, regardless of size, should mind its own business. If I so much as picked up one of his hens, Mike took it as a personal insult and charged in to defend her honor. I admired his dedication, even if I didn't appreciate the bruises.

With Gus Gus, Mike discovered something he'd apparently never encountered before—a creature considerably larger than himself that wasn't particularly impressed by his resume.

Gus, our livestock guardian dog, weighs somewhere around 130 pounds. Mike weighed... well... enough to make a decent pot of soup. Those are not favorable odds by anyone's calculations.

The first time Mike decided to challenge Gus, things didn't go especially well. Gus won the disagreement rather decisively, and Mike spent the next couple of weeks looking a bit humbled. He still strutted around the barnyard, but the swagger had lost a little spring. I thought perhaps he'd learned a valuable lesson about choosing his battles.

I should have known better.

A rooster doesn't spend much time studying military strategy, nor does he believe in strategic retreat. He simply assumes that next time things will work out differently. Sure enough, a few weeks later Mike started coming after me again whenever I got too close to his hens. His confidence had returned. His chest was puffed out. He was strutting again. Apparently, in Mike's version of history, he and Gus had fought to a draw.

A few mornings later, I walked into the coop and found Mike lying there, quite unmistakably dead. I didn't witness what happened, so I can't say for certain. My best guess is that Mike decided to reopen negotiations with Gus. If that's what happened, the second meeting ended much like the first—only with a more permanent conclusion. Gus, after all, does have the right to defend himself.

What surprised me wasn't finding Mike. I assumed it was only a matter of time before his bravado proved to be a fatal flaw. It was the hens. There they were, pecking away at him. They'd already moved on with astonishing efficiency. There wasn't a memorial service or a moment of respectful silence. There wasn't even a tiny chicken-sized expression of, "Well, this is terribly sad." Nope. They'd apparently looked at their former protector and collectively concluded, "He always insisted on providing for us."

If you've never owned chickens, that probably sounds horrifying. If you have owned chickens, you're simply nodding your head. Chickens are practical creatures. Sentimentality is not one of their stronger qualities.

As I stood there looking at Mike, I realized he had lived exactly the way a rooster ought to live. He protected his hens. He patrolled his territory. He feared absolutely nothing, including things that could squash him like a bug. He was bold, opinionated, occasionally exasperating, and completely convinced he could win any argument. You almost have to admire that kind of confidence.

Fortunately, the flock wasn't left leaderless. Russell Crowe, my 4-month-old Light Brahma rooster, had already been waiting in the wings. Since he looks so much like his predecessor, I've decided that Russell has earned a promotion.

His name is now Mike Crowe II. Around here, it isn't really a name anymore. It's a job description. As Mike Crowe's namesake, Mike Rowe, might say, "It's a dirty job, but somebody's gotta do it."

Mike Crowe is dead. Long live Mike Crowe II.

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