Commusings: Cock-a-Doodle-Drama by Jake Laub

In the first summer of the pandemic, Schuyler was scrolling NextDoor when she saw the post: “Baby chicks, cheep!”

With 10 egg-hungry lockdown residents at Commune, we could use more laying hens in our brood, so she jumped at the opportunity and purchased eight feathered fluffballs. 

As they grew into their awkward “teenage” stage, we began to hear strange, guttural barks from the garden, as if a few chicks had phlegm stuck in their throats.

I was tending the tomatoes one morning when I happened to see two scruffy birds on the coop’s roof making this odd (yet possibly familiar) sound. Uh oh. We had two young roosters in the brood.

A small aside on chicken sexing: Egg-laying chicks are notoriously challenging to sex upon hatching. Most commercial hatcheries use “vent sexing,” which involves gently squeezing the chick’s cloaca (their all-in-one opening for reproduction and defecation) to expose the internal reproductive organs.

Male chicks have a small bump (papilla) inside the vent, while females do not. This method requires highly trained professionals, as the differences are very subtle. Some of these elite professionals train for two to three years at special academies and are able to sex more than 1,000 chicks per hour with up to 98% accuracy. That’s a lot of baby buttholes.

Anyways, when you go buy chicks from a reputable source, such as the late, great Malibu Feed Bin (which sadly burned in the Palisades Fire), those chicks have been sexed. What’s more, they are standard, full-sized breeds. These were semi-feral bantams bred by a back-canyon Topanga lady. Suffice it to say, they were not sexed.

Soon two more cockerels joined their brothers cockle-hackle-dooing, followed by a fifth a week later. Instead of eight egg-laying hens, we had a veritable young men’s chorus.

A common misconception about roosters is that they crow solely at sunrise. Maybe these roosters were just inexperienced, but they exercised their windpipes consistently from 3 AM through 3 PM. This wasn’t such a problem mid-pandemic, but as the lockdowns loosened and retreats appeared on the horizon, something needed to be done.

I called my brother-in-law who drives commercial cargo ships and hunts ducks. I will spare you the details, but I learned to dispatch roosters. As someone who eats meat, it was a worthy experience to end the life of my future soup, but I can’t say I enjoyed the process. 

Which brings me to Part 2 of this saga.

Two months ago, I had just finished jiujitsu class when one of my training partners announced, “This is kind of random, but by any chance does anyone have a place to house several chickens?” 

I raised my hand.

It turns out my friend had a friend whose HOA emailed him at the start of an extended international vacation to tell him that his three backyard chickens were in violation of HOA rules and had to go … immediately. 

My jiujitsu friend was trying to help him out, and it also happened that Topanga was presently chickenless, so it seemed like a good fit. The chickens were supposedly less than a year old, with many egg-laying years ahead of them.

So, I arranged for there to be feed and water in the coop when my friend dropped off the chickens late one evening. As I no longer live at Commune Topanga, this was all coordinated via text message.

That weekend Schuyler sent me a text along with a blurry POV video: “2 roosters, 1 chicken, 0 eggs. 😑 ” 

I watched the video. Damn, she's right. 

I asked my jiujitsu friend (who, I should point out, went way out of his way to do his friend a favor and knows nothing about chickens) for the former rooster owner’s phone number.

I text: “Hi, it turns out two of these three chickens are actually roosters. Can you help us figure out what to do with them?” 

His response: “We’re actually moving away. Sorry.” 

As the saying goes, “no good deed goes unpunished.” I’m having flashbacks to four years ago.

I called Schuyler: “OK Schuyler, I don’t have the heart to cull more roosters, but I know we can’t keep them with retreats and such. Why don’t you just … leave the coop door open next time you’re there? Topanga is full of coyotes, bobcats, and mountain lions who would love a rooster lunch.” 

We agreed. It was a good plan. Maybe less humane (from the rooster’s perspective), but certainly less traumatic for us.

A week later I was visiting Commune Topanga and walked into the garden. There in the coop were two beautiful roosters and one overwhelmed hen. 

I texted Schuyler: “They are still here!”

Her response: “I just couldn’t do it!” 

After a few hours of work on the property I left the coop door … closed. Somehow I couldn’t do it, either. 

Two days later all hell broke loose in the Palisades, and Schuyler and I forgot all about our rooster problem. 

We constantly refreshed our Watch Duty app as the fireline crept up the canyon, pixel by pixel. 

We talked about winds, hot spots, and water drops. 

We passed through phases of acceptance and hope. And, finally, relief.

Two weeks later I finally had a chance to visit the property. 

I flashed my Topanga ID at the National Guard roadblock and squeezed past heavy-duty brush clearance equipment still working along the road. 

At Commune, a fine layer of ash coated the outdoor tables and chairs. It was so quiet. Too quiet. 

Maybe I would be required for rooster carcass disposal after all. 

I walked to the garden, and the coop was … empty. 

I called Schuyler, “Did someone finally let the roosters out?”

She responded: “No, it’s way better than that. According to our neighbors, at some point during the fire a group of good Samaritans drove around Topanga rescuing abandoned animals. They took our roosters to a ranch somewhere.”

“Do we know where?”

“No idea… and I’m not exactly trying to find out.”

 

Occasionally, clemency comes with good karma.