Cock Logic

The story of Baxter, as an Allegory for our Theater
By Steven Leigh Morris

Baxter, reflecting on the state of the world (All photos by SLM, unless otherwise indicated)

Rage

In defense of my pet rooster, Baxter, he is not really an angry bird. True, he has his moments when he gets annoyed. Sometimes he shrieks in exasperation when I pick up one of “his” three hens. He exhibits deep concern for her welfare when I return her to the flock, circling her and cackling to her: “Are you okay, sugar plum, did he hurt you?”

Baxter shows no symptoms of the gratuitous physical violence exhibited by other roosters I’ve owned.  He does not blindside-attack me or anybody else, or the other chickens of his flock. He does, however, “court” (drops one wing and dances in a circle) and mount the hens, often against their will. Or so I think, though their attitude is actually more like, “Okay, let’s get this over with.” The sex is mercifully brief (about five seconds), and that’s what roosters do in nature. Immediately after the act, the violated hen shakes her feathers and joins him for a snack of seeds or dirt, or whatever.

To be clear, this is not a defense of sexual assault in any human society, on the grounds of, well, boys will be boys, or that’s just nature. Chickens make no pretense of being civilized. Like us, they are hard-wired to behave the way they do; unlike us, their behavior is governed primarily by instincts and hormones. We have more tools at our disposal and can do better, though we often don’t. Something to aspire to.

Last week, I walked into the chicken run to spread a treat of wild bird seed from a red plastic Folgers coffee container. To my surprise, Baxter attacked the container while it was still in my hand. This was not over-enthusiasm for the contents, this was an attack. The golden hackle feathers on his neck were flared as he lunged at the interior of the now empty plastic container. Taking this unprecedented act as burgeoning aggression towards me, I followed the advice of a chicken expert named Corlette, who has a farm in Norco. Corlette had forewarned me that should the rooster start to challenge my authority, I should not return the aggression by lunging at him back or picking him up, which would only incite him further. Rather, I should simply stomp my feet at his feet, prompting him to back up and thereby establishing my dominance in his pecking order. So that’s what I did, and Baxter indeed backed away, though he looked confused, as if he couldn’t quite fathom my point.

Two days later, when the chickens were free-ranging in the garden, I walked out towards them holding the same red container, filled with seed. They all ran up to me – Baxter in the rear, since he’s fatter than them and tends to waddle when he runs. I dumped bird seed on the ground, which the hens gobbled excitedly, while Baxter again attacked the now empty container. This is when I realized he was not attacking me at all. There was no hint of him trying to bite or kick any part of me. His focus was entirely on the coffee container, the singular object of his rage.

There is considerable anecdotal evidence on poultry websites that the color red pisses off roosters like almost nothing else. 

The object of Baxter’s fury

This is like when a theater critic or audience member, weaned on the experimental vision of Joe Chaikin or Julian Beck or Jerzy Grotowski, shows up to a production of Lillian Hellman’s Little Foxes and sees red; or like when a theater classics addict takes in The Wooster Group at REDCAT, and goes mental from “all that ‘60s crap” (even if the company was founded in 1975), mistaking the container for the seed. We have more tools at our disposal and can do better, though we often don’t. Something to aspire to.

A Brief Biography of Baxter

Baxter arrives early, and discovers early what it means to be alone.

Baxter hatched on May 11, 2018 directly from his egg into an incubator situated on a table in an otherwise vacant bedroom in our house. Baxter entered the world a day early from the 21 days standard incubation time. Baxter, like many visionaries, like Joe Chaikin, Julian Beck, like Jerzy Grotowski, was ahead of his time. True, Chaikin, Beck and Grotowski made lasting contributions to an art form, whereas Baxter merely showed up early to a party. Nonetheless, in the land of potential, Baxter’s lasting contributions are still in process, possible, and yet to be measured.

He staggered squealing into a cramped, heated machine filled with five other eggs. Baxter’s egg and one other were purchased at a hatchery in Norco. The two eggs were of a breed called “Black Copper Marans,” from France, their most valued trait being the copper-colored eggs laid by the hens.

Two other eggs were mailed in from a hatchery in the Midwest. They were supposed to be from an English breed called “White Orpington,” but who knows, because nothing grew inside those eggs.

The final two were unidentified “brown eggs” from a feed store in Banning.

On day 21 of incubation (hatching day), Baxter was alone in the world. Not one of the other five eggs had started to crack. I was at work when Baxter hatched early, but my wife was home and very upset at the sight of this naked, tiny dinosaur-like creature flopping around inside a small machine making a whirring sound. When I got home, I transferred Baxter to a cardboard box, heated with a desk lamp and lined with paper towels and straw. His loneliness continued to upset us – given there was no indication, even on “day 22,” that any of the other eggs would hatch. Chickens are flock birds. So are actors, but more on that later.

So I made a trip to a feed store outside Beaumont and purchased two female day-old baby chicks: one Rhode Island Red whom we named Lucy, after Lucille Ball; and the other, a Buff Orpington we named Wilma Flintstone, for no particular reason. Lucy and Wilma joined Baxter in the brooder, and they all got along fine.

Left to right, Lucy and Baxter, two days old

On days 23 and 24, three eggs in the incubator started cracking. The first out of this latter trio was Helen (the other Black Copper Marans), followed by two difficult births from the “brown eggs” purchased at the feed store –Tiny Tim and Julius. Tim emerged exhausted and in discomfort – a huge blotch of unabsorbed egg-yolk remained attached to his navel. Even after I snipped it off with a pair of scissors, he lay on his back panting, not a good sign. I flipped him over so his feet were touching the ground, but he showed little interest in anything, certainly not in walking, eating or drinking.

Left to right, Tim and Baxter, about three weeks old

For a week, neither Tim nor Julius ate much. Tim looked remarkably like Baxter – he must have had some French Marans blood, but he was mixed with something else, I couldn’t tell. Julius was clearly another Rhode Island Red. Julius and Tim drank on occasion, but they mostly slept.

Left to right, Julius and Baxter, in the halcyon days when they got along

After a week, Tim and Julius both gained strength – a kind of miracle under such harsh circumstances. Three months later, Tim, the runt, was the largest of the flock and had starting acting very pleased with himself. He crowed frequently and he started to bully Julius, who, in turn, bullied Baxter. Perhaps this is what a difficult upbringing begets?

Tiny Tim takes charge

On seeing Tim drive Julius into a corner and not let him eat, I contacted Corlette, the woman from Norco, the aforementioned chicken expert/animal trainer. She offered to take Tim and find him a home. Within a week, sans Tim, Julius was now bullying Baxter, not letting him eat, etc. etc. Among the males, Baxter resided at the bottom of the pecking order. He was French, a foreigner in a foreign land. There’s a certain kind of actor who figures that he can get by on attitude and plumage, before the world bears down on him. That was Baxter. Mainly though, he was a gentle, good-natured fellow, and this is why my fondness for Baxter grew.

The following week, Julius joined Tim at the farm in Norco, leaving Baxter without tormentors.

Baxter, and Our Theater

Baxter as he is now

Perhaps it was because with Tim and Julius lording over him, Baxter had no status throughout his youth. If he hadn’t been so tormented by bullies, perhaps things would be different. 

Or perhaps it was simply in the time of his liberation from torment, he overcompensated for the pleasures once denied him. With Tim and Julius gone, Baxter gorged his meals, often pushing the hens out of the way so he could eat first, as though gorging would help him get what he needed. This is not typical rooster behavior, not flock behavior, in which the rooster is stately and generous and chivalrous, particularly when resources are so scarce.

Corlette explained that Baxter was just a dopey, once maligned teenager, and that he’d grow into his role once he figured out how to grow into his role.

“And one man in his time plays many parts,” wrote Corlette’s favorite playwright.

Despite a certain paucity of resources in the chicken run and in the garden, Baxter has gained weight, along with mature plumage, and some manners. He now waits for the hens to eat before he does, standing back politely while watching them. As they free-range in the garden, he keeps one-eye aimed at the sky, watching for hawks, an ever-present danger. Even at the sight of a raven, which is harmless, he sounds an alarm. They look like a flock. They sometimes act like a flock, and yet . . .

For the most part, the hens ignore Baxter, which is rude and hurtful. I mean, I don’t know how Baxter actually feels about it, but it seems rude and hurtful to me. There’s a particular cackle he makes, it’s a summons, from excitement, telling them he’s discovered something of interest: a patch of parsley, or young grass. Lucy may wander over, responding to his call, but not often. Wilma and Helen, too, are mostly in their own worlds.

In Baxter’s view, he’s the lord of the manor, the cock of the walk. This is evident in his very carriage. To the hens, he’s just some sorry guy they grew up around, some guy with an inflated sense of importance. They’ll get around to him at some point. Right now, they’re busy opening a show next week, foraging for props and publicity and replacement actors, replacing the thespians who suddenly got roles on TV. It’s not so easy holding a flock together when there’s a feed bin in the next yard.

Baxter crows every morning, letting the world know that he and they exist, and that what they’re doing matters. He can be quite loud. How does one explain to a rooster that nobody cares as much as he does, that he lives in a world where everybody lives in their own world?

Yet the activities of him and his flock do matter. They produce up to two dozen eggs a week. The quality is as fine and as fresh as eggs you’ll find anywhere. 

When will Baxter be taken seriously? Or does it even matter that he isn’t. The work goes on. The foraging. It gets harder as the years go by, but the work goes on.

We need more resources at our disposal to do better. Something to aspire to.