Fred was a son-of-a-bitch.
Fred was self-centered, thoughtless and cruel. He was single-minded as well. And he was impossible to catch.
Fred was a big 2 year old Leghorn rooster that ruled the roost around our farm in the countryside in central Wisconsin in 1972. Of course, there weren't many other chickens around at the time Fred was there.
I don't know when we bought Fred - he may have been the survivor of a science project, or he may have just been a survivor of a group of chicks, the rest of whom had succumbed to the unwanted attentions of our cats or dogs.
Anyway, however he got there, Fred was a survivor. Until that fateful day . . .
I believe it was in late May or early June 1972. I was just about to turn 16. Our family had moved from the Chicago suburbs up to an old farmstead in Junction City, Wisconsin in the summer of 1968. My Dad had retired from being a detective on the Chicago Police Department and my mother had retired from being a teacher with the Chicago Board of Education. We were making an attempt to be farmers, but we were only playing at it. We had pigs and we had brought up a bull calf from Chicago - a joke gift from my Dad's former colleagues. We had dogs and cats as well. And we had Fred.
If you don't know anything about roosters, it may come as a revelation to find out that they can attack you and knock you down. The way they do it is that they run at you from behind when you can't see them and then they fly up and hit you in the back of the knees, causing them to buckle and down you go. Now, normally a rooster won't go after a full-grown adult, although there are stories. However, Fred was choosy - he liked to knock down my little brother, James.
Fred had knocked down James, around 2 years old, at least once before. What he would do is fly up and hit James in the back of the legs - Fred was about 14 pounds, a BIG rooster - and knock James down. Then Fred would jump on James's chest and start pecking at this face. You can see the problem, right? We had caught Fred doing this before, and we could never catch him, although we would whip stones at him as he ran away.
Have you ever seen a rooster run? It is a funny sight indeed. If you can remember the movie "Papillon" with Steve McQueen, when he escapes into the jungle with another prisoner, and they take coca leaves and chew them for energy, and they start doing that funny running style with their hands straight down by their sides, head forward, making big strides - that is how roosters run. Head forward, big strides, dodging and weaving.
Well, that day I came charging around the corner of the our big two-story brick house because I could hear James screaming. And there he was - Fred, that son-of-a-bitch, standing on poor James's chest, pecking away at his face, with little bloody marks here and there. Luckily he hadn't gotten to his eyes.
I yelled, "Fred you dirty son-of-a-bitch" and he took off running.
Now, we used to try to catch Fred, but it was nigh approaching impossible.
So Fred was speeding away, starting to go around the house. He was about 25 yards away, moving like the devil was after him. I grabbed a stone - not a rock, a stone - and whipped it at him.
Well, it was a "lucky" shot - one of those that you would never be able to replicate in a thousand years. I caught that rooster just behind the head, and broke his neck. All of a sudden he starts flapping his wings and flopping around, dragging his head down on the ground.
Fred was a goner.
I had never killed an animal before. I was shocked. I couldn't believe what was happening. I mean, I didn't want to really hurt Fred - I just wanted to punish him for hurting my brother, and perhaps teach him not to do it again. But, now we had a dying chicken.
After Fred had stopped moving, discussions took place and explanations were made. We decided we were going to eat him - I mean, what else are you going to do with a dead chicken, bury him?
I got the hatchet and started chopping off his head. Now, that was a big step - I had never chopped off a chicken's head, not even off a dead one, and it took me a few whacks before off it came. I then had to pluck him. Again, never had done it, so another new experience. I think my Mom did the rest.
I believe Fred became "chicken cacciatore" and he was a bit of a tough old bird . . .
. . . in addition to having been a right son-of-a-bitch.