The Lone Ranger

Another chicken met a sad fate that first spring. His name was the Lone Ranger. He was hen pecked, and feather bedraggled. One day he "flew the coop." He went to live alone in the lower barn, and would not return to the henhouse. Supplied with a food dispenser and water, he seemed happy enough. Day by day, his appearance improved. His feathers grew back and he filled out to twice his size. He developed a lush white feather cape around his neck and beautiful curving long green and blue tail feathers. He would come up and visit the studio in the upper barn as soon as he heard me arrive in the morning. Strutting around among the sculptures, he seemed quite at home. He must have missed the henhouse life, though, because he would stand for hours outside the fence peering in. He seemed especially conversant with one of the smaller roosters, a wiry white and black one. One day, I opened the gate to give him the choice of returning.

After a few minutes, such bedlam arose I ran out the studio door to witness a fierce cock fight. These two roosters were lifting their spurs to pierce the abdomen of their opponent, and pecking at each other's necks with their beaks. To ward off more bloodshed, I wedged a shovel between them. It worked. The wiry black and white rooster retreated back inside the gate and I closed it quickly. So ended the Lone Ranger's visitation rights. The roosters, however, continued to do battle through the chicken wire fence, pacing back and forth like two soldiers on opposite sides of a wall; but they could do no harm.

Then one day the Lone Ranger vanished, all but his feathers, which lay spread all over the barn floor. It felt like the end of an era.