Chanticleer - the well-mannered rooster

Chanticleer - a rooster with manners

 A small chicken arrived in my Harare garden one day. He was a scrawny little golden feathered fellow and when I took a careful look at him I formed the opinion that he would not last long.

Another little chick that had arrived a few months previously on an exploratory visit over a high grey wall from the next door garden had only lasted a few days before bending his little yellow legs forward, curling his feet with its fragile claws and dying.

I did not think the new arrival would survive either. He did.

He fed himself from the garden and enjoyed following English, my faithful gardener around as he turned the soil or dug from the compost heap. Nature’s bounty was before him with seeds, worms, crickets and greens to choose from. He grew into a self-made cockerel and began to sprout some magnificent tail feathers, a handsome six-peaked red cockscomb and bright red wattle from under his chin.

I called him Chanticleer after Chaucer’s proud fellow who wouldn’t keep his eyes open when he crowed and, although warned many times by his wife Pentelote always to keep his eyes open in case of danger, was finally taken by a fox.

Chanticleer used to sit on the window sill every morning and crow loudly. I couldn’t help noticing narcissistic tendencies developing as he flirted with himself in the glass window, on the hub caps of a car, looking admiringly at his image first with one eye – then the other. The poor fellow was lonely so a Pentelote was bought for him for $8 (which was a rip-off). 

Pentelote

When food was laid out for them Chanticleer would cluck for her attention and always politely allowed her to peck first before stepping forward for his share. He displayed no greed or impatience with her as she ate, but waited courteously and patiently.

Pentelote laid 16 eggs near English’s bedroom and there she sat for some weeks protecting them. 
She would rush out for food and water and then rush back once more to warm her eggs.

Sixteen little chicks hatched and a motley crew they were, of different colours and types, making one wonder about her background. Only after her third or fourth lay did she produce a copy of Chanticleer.

Other hens were introduced into the garden by Mr and Mrs Flett, the new owners of the property. They had two cockerels, two of which were exactly alike - huge cream heavy fellows with beautiful spotted tails. I called them Eezer and Tweezer. They were constant companions and seemed to confer with one another before walking in any direction.

Chanticleer still seemed to rule the roost and would chase Eezer and Tweezer away from his little clan, now joined by a black and white speckled hen of which he seemed very fond when Pentelote was otherwise occupied with bringing up her brood.

Handsome Chanticleer in the garden

Sadly Eezer and Tweezer had a huge fight which went on for two solid days, on and off. 

Chanticleer tried to stop them but once in the midst of the battle they were determined to fight to the death and poor Eezer, who lay in a very sad state after the fight, was finished off by the Flett’s gardener and eaten for his dinner.

I imagine it was Eezer who succumbed as Tweezer is a weightier name. I couldn’t tell them apart in life and certainly couldn’t in death.

There was always a lot of noise when one of the hens laid an egg and Eezer and Tweezer would come running to see what was wrong, only to be dismissed by Chanticleer who seemed to think he had the situation in hand.

One day a hen laid an egg on a high shelf on the verandah. There was an outpouring of cackling and shrieking and wailing – Chanticleer came running across the garden to give this poor hen some comfort by climbing onto a chair and then onto the shelf where he began making cooing noises to her to calm down. The sound he made was rather like water running over pebbles and it seemed to calm her down immediately - whereupon she produced one small pullet egg.

As she leapt off the shelf in triumph the egg fell off too and was promptly eaten by Jasper the next-door fox terrier who had also come to investigate the rumpus. The hens seemed to feel safe on that shelf away from marauders or a large hawk which zooms down on them unexpectedly and carries off one of the smaller chickens.

Pentelote fleeing 

Chanticleer comes to visit me now and again. 
He stands in the doorway resting one leg by tucking it away and standing on the other. He likes to show off a bit. 
He stretches his wings to their full extent then flaps them madly before throwing back his head for his very best crow.

    I’ll tell you something – he never shuts his eyes while he is crowing.

                                       By Joan Robertson (aka Hanly, aka Moffit)    11 October 2012