Born in the Panama Canal Zone 80 years ago, Mr. Zidbeck came to California in 1944 with his mother and three siblings. He enlisted in the US Army after graduating from high school. Honorably discharged in 1952, he attended college under the G.I. Bill. After graduating from UCLA in 1958, he worked as a probation officer in LA County. George's wife of 55 years died this past August. However, he plans to remain in San Luis Obispo County since retiring in 1985.
In addition to penning observations and reflections since living in San Luis Obispo County, George has authored six volumes of a family saga that addresses the negative influence of alcohol on a family from the perspective of the mother (two volumes); the father (three volumes); and the first born son. Anyone interested in contacting the author, may write George Zidbeck.
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Rochester, George's Good Buddy |
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The Story of Caruso the Rooster
by George Zidbeck
Who hasn't, as a child, belted out the words to Old McDonald Had a Farm? From such verses, and from a wide selection of pre-school children's book, young ones learn how animals speak. Bow-wow? Dog. Moo? Cow. Oink? Pig. And how did roosters talk? Cock-a-doodle-doo of course. Well, if you didn't learn better when you grew up, I'm gonna tell you here, straight up: A rooster's clarion call, shrill and throat pinched, challenges their counterparts with a quaking urrrgh-urrgh, uurrgh-urrgh- urrghrrrr!
It's one thing to watch a rooster and listen to his growling bravado when standing across a wire-meshed divide—quite another to enter the pen and try to get up close and personal. True, some male chickens might tolerate trespassers. Others take your approach as if you answered their esophageal call by throwing down your gauntlet.
Allow me to introduce the genesis of my chicken adventure. It began about two decades ago when I met Kathy and Rick Veiera. The couple, with two children, owned acreage in Paso Robles, and impressed me with how close they came to living off the fat of the land. Cutting to the chase, eventually their son and daughter came of age and left home. Consequently, the Veieras decided to reduce their livestock, mainly tended by Kathy. She offered me three hens and a rooster. "Why sure," I said, adding, "That's a perfect number. Give me a few days to build a coop."
Soon thereafter, Dick Earl, my old Whittier neighbor, rolled up with a pre-fabbed 6' X 8' unit which we assembled and circled with chicken wire. Inside, I fixed a roost and a few 'setting' boxes. After buying some feed, I went to the Veieras. The four fowls filled a portable wire cage for the transport to their new home. Before I drove home, Kathy told me the rooster's name, "We call him Caruso because he crows all the time."
Freed inside their new home, the four chickens soon settled down. Their feed and watering containers filled, I had no need to check on them until the next morning. During my next day's foray into the pen, I found myself the subject of Caruso's aggression. He may have had to acclimate himself to a strange territory, but his responsibility to his harem remained the same. It became his mandate to expel me, the interloper.
Even if initially repelled, I soon returned with a garbage can lid—all the better to defend myself and mount a counteroffensive. He retreated, but his spirit stood undaunted. Not that he might've actually inflicted any serious harm upon my personage, but I didn't care to let him have his way. Country Squires don't yield their responsibilities when facing recalcitrant animals. Consequently, I managed him away from the coop door for me to get any eggs laid by the hens. But he always waited for me as I exited, there being about four feet from hen house door to gate.
Although I felt the victor by fending off his attacks, often chasing him around the coop's exterior, I always left after the feeding, watering, and egg collecting. Therefore, once I crossed the outer portal, Caruso's cock-a-doodle-doos proclaimed his victory and he continued his bragging arias throughout the day.
The routine above grew stale in time. Nevertheless, I held to the program with the hope of letting one of the hens brood a nest of chicks to perpetuate the flock and thus provide fryers in addition to eggs. Well, the first brood of four chicks soon disappeared. I have no idea who/what killed them. What the hell, I'll blame the rooster.
Not coming up with a mini-flock of pullets for the frying pan, I decided, figuratively, to put my nemesis on the chopping block. Keep him around to test the notion that one day old fertile eggs fry easier and taste better than sterile ones? Only one answer applies—NO. More importantly, I had no desire to pursue the rooster inside the coop. I went the b-b gun route. A well placed pellet at the base of his skull did the job nicely. He soon thereafter went into the pot. Arroz con Caruso may not have offered haut cuisine, but did well enough for plain eats.
Subsequently, taking care of those three hens turned into an easy chore. Their ova production averaged a dozen eggs weekly, enough to share with my neighbors now and then. Yes, life can be good for a squire. Until . . .
I've written in earlier Observations how my dining room window overlooks the garden site, where the chicken coop adjoined. With morning coffee, I can comfortably sit and sip while surveying a good chunk of my domain. It's a view most fulfilling and rewarding. One fateful morning, while seated at my observation post, I saw a horrendous sight. Inside the coop, a skunk gnawed on a chicken. The corpses of two devoured chickens lay close by.
The skunk took no notice of my running to the killing field until I came to within forty feet of his breakfast. He didn't flee with haste because he couldn't. With a fully extended belly, surfeited with two chickens plus, at best he waddled off at a half trot. Thus, with my flock of three egg producers decimated, and without any means to dispatch the skunk, I sulked homeward.
What to do thereafter but bankrupt the program and get on with my life. Anyways, chickens do not alone make a country squire. It didn't take long before I concluded that had Caruso been there, he might have deterred that skunk. Ah well, live and learn and carry on. Find another project. Maybe write a six volume family saga?
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