The Dekker Peckers and Life Lessons from a Fluffy Butt

I love chickens. Watching them peck around the yard, stabbing randomly at the ground and chasing the occasional bug is one of my favorite pastimes. Chickens are like T-Rexes without arms. I can’t imagine not having arms—guess I need to add that to my list of things I take for granted, right up there with breathing and my feet!

We don’t have any fancy chickens. Most of the Dekker Peckers are rescues or “retired” hens. After about two years, a hen’s egg production gradually declines. This natural slowdown isn’t acceptable for the average human, so older hens are often sold at auctions or in bulk to be used as easy prey for captive predators. On large-scale farms, I imagine the grandma chickens get a one-way ticket to Nugget Land or Soupville. Of course, life in the woods doesn’t come with guarantees either. We have plenty of predators out here including weasels, coyotes, and chicken hawks. But if I were a chicken, I’d rather be hauled off through the sky in the talons of an eagle than baked into a tasteless frozen chicken pie. Not that chickens spend a whole lot of time thinking about that. In fact, I don’t think chickens think much at all.

The Dekker Peckers are safely enclosed at night, and every morning, they gather at the door, cackling impatiently, waiting for me to set them free. They rush out, eager to seize the day without a care for potential dangers. They don’t worry—they just go out and have the best day possible, with their fearless captain, Rooney, leading the way.

Enter Rooney, the Relentless

I paid $15 for Rooney last December, right when the weather was getting cold. I was told he was a black Silkie hen and that she’d start laying eggs soon. Instead, Rooney started crowing. Loudly. At 4:44 a.m. Every. Single. Morning.

Rooney is smaller than the hens by at least two pounds and several inches, but he doesn’t know it. He’s in charge of 15 hens and runs his little fluffy butt off herding them around and trying to make mini Rooneys with any hen he can catch. His size doesn’t stop him. He jumps on, they buck him off, and he flaps into the bushes. But does that stop him? Nope. He dusts off his fluffy butt and tries again.

Be Like Rooney

In my quest to be a better human, I want to be more like Rooney. My writing feels like it’s in a slump, but honestly? I haven’t put much effort into it lately. I wrote the article about the lady who owns the coffee shop, thinking I could pitch it to a newspaper within a week or two. But I can’t seem to get in touch with her to approve the article.

I’ve emailed it, offered to come by and read it to her, and even dragged Dennis there for breakfast in hopes of catching her. No luck. At this point, I feel like I’m bothering her. She always apologizes and says she’s busy, but good hell—how hard is it to read 1,000 words and say, “Yeah, I like it,” or “You call yourself a writer?”

This experience has been full of firsts for me—first interview, first article written specifically for a newspaper, and first time getting ghosted for approval to pitch. I hope this isn’t a sign of things to come, but I think it’s time to move on. Sometimes, moving on feels like giving up, but maybe it’s just making room for something better. I’ll give it one more shot this week, and if nothing happens, I’m dropping it.

Dust It Off and Move On

I’ve got other ideas. I’ve been meaning to write about Emma, the cow who drank her own milk, and how my dad solved that little problem. I also came up with some great additions to the Caleb story while meditating. The bottom line? I just need to be like Rooney—dust off my fluffy butt and keep going after it until an owl hauls me off, kicking and screaming, to the other side.

Rooney wouldn’t quit, and neither should we. So, what’s your next move when life knocks you down?