We have two very different roosters, with two very different leadership styles. Chunky is the biggest chicken in the flock, standing comb and hackle feathers above the largest hens. His feathers are white from his face to his feet with the faintest golden tips around his neck and back. Tiger has the classic rooster red, brown and white feathers and is the smallest chicken in the flock.
Their contrasting size and plumage are a visual clue to other differences the two roosters have. Tiger, though older, has a shrill, high-pitched cock-a-doodle-do that sounds like his voice is yet to break. On the other hand, if a tugboat captain were to hear Chunky crow, they would find themselves checking the foghorn for the cause of its malfunction.
They also have differing approaches to protecting the hens under their watch. These contrasting leadership styles are on full display when firewood is being split.
Firewood splitting is a high risk, high reward exercise for chickens. Dead trees are the home of many insects and bugs. When these homes are torn apart by a well-aimed wood splitter, the tiny creatures become exposed targets for predators. Chickens learn fast which human activities bring them food and are quick to spread the word to the rest of the flock when a feast is found. But the bountiful spoils released from inside a fallen tree come at a potentially big cost. Because every action has an equal and opposite reaction, each time the wood splitter successfully makes its way through a log, the force causes the now two pieces of wood to fly in opposing directions. That makes for two crude, heavy missiles flying unguided through the gathered, feathered banquet guests. If the expert wood splitter happens to miscue and land the axe head near the edge of the log, the result is one very heavy bomb and one very fast bullet.
In the face of this chaotic scene filled with loud clucking of both delight and fright, our two roosters show up for their flock in their two distinct leadership styles. Tiger, possibly aware of the irony of chickens walking voluntarily toward a chopping block, struts around the woodpile tutting his disapproval of the hen’s reckless behaviour. The next second he is bragging about the bugs he finds crawling out of a split log. As termites turned to treats, beetles and bugs become breakfast and the mighty huntsman spider becomes the hunted, Tiger holds his head high and announces the great feast he has found. He takes full responsibility for the bulging bellies of the happy hens.
When a piece of split wood narrowly misses a hen and she squawks a scream of surprise, Tiger immediately scolds all the hens for their recklessness and starts shooing them away. As he righteously endeavours to clear the danger zone he comes across more irresistibly tasty insects that he immediately begins advertising to the dispersing crowd.
If the human responsible for the wood splitting gets involved in either duty of provider or protector, Tiger quickly establishes himself as the originator of both these concepts. He puffs out his tiny chest even further than usual, tutting, clucking and skipping to emphasise his superiority. If this were a battlefield, Tiger would the General up the front of the troops, sword raised in the air proclaiming, “They may take our eggs, but they will never take our witchetty grubs.”
There are other leadership styles, more subtle ways of rallying the troops. These Generals might be found behind the ranks, possibly in cities thousands of miles away, moving tiny flags over maps and listening to the council of other leaders. That is where we find Chunky. The sun highlighting the golden tips of his white feathers as he lies face down, fast asleep in the middle of the lawn. Chunky is thousands of miles away, dreaming of a feast of bugs without the threat of wooden missiles.
