ROOSTER CULL.
I came around the corner of our cabin to find the youngest Smith child, sweet Olivia, aged three, chasing Favorite Chick, our hellion rooster. Seeing a potentially dangerous situation developing, I called to Olivia and tried to move in quick, but was too late. As Olivia turned around, Favorite Chick pounced on her, swiping at her legs with his talons and splitting the skin before I could grab him. Though not as bad as we'd feared, it had been what we'd feared—Favorite Chick had attacked a child.A month ago we had to put our beloved rooster Ellen down. Ellen had been sick and was in misery. We did what we could, but he wasn't getting better and we hated the idea of him suffering any longer, so I killed him. It was hard, we still miss him, but we felt it had to be done.Ellen's passing, however, meant we were also out a rooster. Hannah and I enjoy having a rooster as we prefer the taste of fertilized eggs (and the potential to hatch more chicks). But roosters also add a little protection for the hens, which is welcomed in our little woody area where predation is a potentiality from all sides. When Ellen was gone, the oldest Smith child, Ira, gave us one of his roosters, who he called Favorite Chick. Ellen was calm, assertive, but never aggressive towards us, and did his job well. Favorite Chick was Ellen's cocky opposite—high-strung, mean, ornery, and had no problem attacking us from behind. Or our guests. Or, apparently, children—children being where we drew the line.We had considered culling Favorite Chick for weeks. We almost did after he attacked me, almost after he attacked Cher, and many times after he attacked Hannah. But we didn't because we wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt. And we eventually regretted it. Watching Olivia cry, we regretted not taking care of him sooner. Because as bad as it was, it could have been much worse. It could have been the face. It could have been the eyes. But that is why I wanted to share this story, because Favorite Chick—who I admit had a truly unfortunate name for a story like this—was the first animal I'd ever killed not because he was sick, or even for food (though he did become chicken soup), but because he was dangerous. I'm not looking to justify what I did—I was preventing future attacks on children which, to me, needs no justification—but I'd like to hear what others have and/or would have done in the same situation. Our dear readers, farmers or not, should feel free to shed some perspective or share a story.- Jesse.