We have oodles of roosters currently. Six of the seven chicklets were gallos. Then somehow or other we had TWO quiquiriquis machos, that I called Alpha and Beta. Additionally, we had a regular-sized rooster who avoids the quiquiriquis like the plague, well mostly Alpha because he is a badass.
Anyway, the three grown roosters have decided in turn that my rooftop garden was a good place to hang out and poop. I am not pleased with this situation and take every opportunity to squirt them with the hose and flap my arms at them to get them to fly off.
Then we need to talk about the noise factor. Contrary to popular opinions, roosters do not just crow at dawn. Rather, they start a call-and-return musical rendition whenever they feel like it. It could be 3 am or 3 pm. Not only do we have 9 roosters on our property competing for song dominance, but the two closest neighbors also have chickens who want to be the earliest songbird in town, which riles up ours and so it goes on and on.
Not all of the roosters have perfected a harmonious crow as of yet. Their off-key singing more often than not riles up the dogs. Fred starts with some howling. George comes in with the bass. And finally, Cocoa is the soprano of the group. This lasts for several minutes. Not to be outdone, the roosters start up again as soon as the dogs start. Over and over again, multiple times throughout the day.
Last-minute update: Finally, three buyers later and our crooners are down to a manageable number. We still have one chicklet and the normal-sized rooster who is DEEE-LIGHTED to be the biggest cock in the compound. He reves up with a manly flapping of wings and let’s loose, now assured that no little quiquiriqui bully will clothesline him mid-crow.
Our mightily pregnant nanny goat finally gave birth at dawn on December 12, el Día
de la Virgen de Guadalupe. She had TRIPLETS spaced about an hour apart. My son took one look at them and declared them “unremarkable”. They are white, with no real distinguishing characteristics.
Since they were born on such an auspicious day, the smallest, of course, had to be named Lupillo, in honor of La Virgen. It’s still a common practice for babies born on a particular saint day to take on that name in our area of Mexico. All of my husband’s siblings were named that way. However, we couldn’t name all three the same.
December 12 of this year will go down in infamy as the day Mexican icon Vicente Fernandez died. So it was no stretch of the imagination to christen the other two goats Vicente and Fernando in his memory, shortened to Chente and Nando.
Chente was born with weak ankles. He had a set of pipes on him that let everyone know his frustration when he couldn’t keep up with his brothers. My husband crafted a set of splints to shore up his ankles and Chente was up and around in no time. After about a week, the splints were removed and I’m happy to report that Chente’s ankles seem much stronger.
This birth wrapped up the fecundity of the Flores Ranchito for 2021. It was a particularly difficult year on all accounts. I am hoping that 2022 will bestow blessings on our animal kingdom (and human inhabitants) beyond our wildest dreams. Or at least I hope we manage to muddle through again like we do most years.
We had a surprise brood appear this month. One of our kikirikis (miniature chicken) had taken herself off to the fenced-in area under the chayote, not that we noticed with the other clucky-clucks around. Then suddenly, she popped out with 7–yes 7–chicks in tow. She’s a cautious mom. She only took the little’uns to the other side of the fence when she was sure Fred and George wouldn’t bother them. They didn’t. She doesn’t have the panic-inducing sense of adventure the last mama hen had when she would round everybody up and “go on an adventure” like The Magic Schoolbus series. So far, so good!
Remember, some years ago, we had Chat, the chicken cat? Well, now we also have become the home of 2 chogs (chicken dogs). These speckled beasts not only lie down with the dogs (I’m sure waking up with fleas) but also come when my son calls Fred and George for dinner. And not just to hang back a modest distance either. They are front and center waiting for a plate of dog food. My son has to shoo them away, they are that aggressive.
If you remember, the story of Chat, the chicken cat, didn’t have a happy ending. It remains to be seen how Chog 1 and Chog 2 will do.