My Rooster Stabbed His Eye Out

For nine years off and on, I’ve been raising chickens.

It’s not been the skip-through-the-park I expected. They’ve gotten mauled by dogs, possums, coons, and each other. They’ve been carried off by foxes. They’ve been stolen by hawks. A hen even scalped herself (I have no idea how).

But three months ago was possibly the chief of all chicken injuries.

Sherman is my Buff Orpington rooster. He’s only attacked me five or six times, and I always win, so we’ve learned to tolerate each other.

September 29, I had the brilliant idea to let him free range with all the other chickens…including my Rhode Island Red rooster, Mr. Peabody.

Did I know cockfighting went to the death?

Yes, I did.

Did I think it through?

No, no, I didn’t.

Listen to my logic here (so you’re not too mad at me for what happens next)—horses fight for dominance. Dogs fight for dominance. Chickens fight for dominance.

And you know what happens? One wins and one loses…and they move on with life. I know people who have five or six roosters that get along splendidly.

Why should mine be any different?

So, I and my logic opened all the coop doors.

The chickens ran into the backyard, scratching the mulch, eating bugs and greens, singing their happy songs.

Within minutes, Mr. Peabody and Sherman found each other. They did the normal chicken-fight thing, where they get about 18 inches apart and stare one another in the eyes. Then one throws himself at the other and tries to get him with his claws. I’ve seen dozens of these fights between hens, and they’ve always ended fine.

But I didn’t consider that roosters have spurs, spikes that stick out of their ankles. Mr. Peabody’s spurs are probably three inches long, Shermans’ a little shorter.

The dog, Dexter, ran out and broke the roosters up. The two birds were breathing hard and already worn out.

Mr. Peabody, who’s terrified of dogs, slunk away. Sherman claimed that as a victory. He followed Mr. Peabody, kicking out his feet in triumph.

My 10-year-old sister, Charlotte, was outside with me. The sun had just fallen past the trees, leaving the colors beautiful and saturated. I pointed to the twenty chickens pecking on the hill.

“Isn’t that just the happiest thing?” I asked.

All seemed well, so I went inside. Not long after, Charlotte flung open the door.

“Madi, help! Help! Help!” she shouted.

I bolted out of my room.

“The yellow rooster,” she said, panting. “The red one beat him up.”

We ran outside, and my heart dropped. From across the yard, I could hear a deep-throated scream of pain, repeated over and over.

I’d never heard anything like it.

Sherman, the Orpington rooster, was lying in the dirt, eyes closed. Blood dripped from the comb on his head. Already his comb was wilting and turning blue. I’ve never seen an animal fade so fast.

He must have been stabbed in the heart. I figured he was bleeding out. I have NEVER seen a chicken’s comb turn blue after an injury.

It wasn’t long before Sherman went silent. Charlotte and I sat next to him so he wouldn’t die alone.

I looked at the other side of Sherman’s face.

My heart sank again.

His eye had been stabbed out. Which meant, probably, his brain had been damaged, not his heart.

I hate when an animal is in pain. I considered putting him down, but I hate doing that even more. From the looks of things, I wouldn’t have to. He looked like he’d pass away any minute.

“Oh, Lord Jesus,” prayed Charlotte. “Please let the rooster live.”
I didn’t want to crush her faith, so I stayed quiet.

Eventually, Charlotte stood and turned away. “I can’t watch anymore,” she sobbed.

After a while, I went to sit with Charlotte on the bench by the tire swing, feeling sick.

“Oh Jesus,” she prayed through tears. “You raised the dead. You healed paralytics, and lepers, and sickness—It is not hard for you to heal this chicken! Please, Jesus, please. Heal the chicken. Please.”

It was the “you raised the dead” that got me. I wished I had faith like she did.

I hugged her shoulders. “You pray, Charlotte. I don’t have faith for this.”

She just laughed. “God will give you faith if he wants to do it.”

I continued silently praying it would pass on quickly.

Faith is a gift. God gives his children faith for things he wants to do. You can’t force yourself to have faith, but you can stir up what faith God has given you.

I felt so frustrated with myself. I’d gone to a lot of effort to get that rooster. I spent months looking on market forums before I found him. I wasn’t beating myself up, but it’s heartbreaking to know a creature is suffering, and you could have prevented it.

“I’m going back to check on him,” said Char.

I stayed behind. I’d already been tired, and the chicken thing had worn me out. Char slowly crossed the yard, praying aloud. As she reached the chicken coop, she spun and shouted, “Madi! He’s standing up! He’s standing up!”

Oh no, I thought. Why won’t he just die!!!?

Sure enough, the rooster was on his feet. He started walking—in a wide circle. Apparently, chickens need both eyes to walk in a straight line.

But he was up, which felt like a miracle in and of itself. I was shocked.

We put him in a safe little coop to rest. I didn’t figure he’d make it through the night.

At supper, I felt exhausted. In the chair beside mine, Charlotte was humming and moving her shoulders happily.

“Why are you so happy?” I asked.

“God gave me faith! He’s going to live!”

That gave me hope, if only a little. I’ve seen a lot of things happen when God speaks to Charlotte.

In the morning, I tentatively opened the coop and…

He was chilling there, alive.

There was no way.

Unless it was the mercy of God for a little ten-year-old girl…I have no explanation.

For a couple of days, I kept an eye on him. He could see out of one eye, but the other was swollen shut. Both eyes were fighting infection.

And because he needed both eyes to see straight, he couldn’t find food or water for himself.

So I went down to the coop several times each day to give him food and water, but it wasn’t enough. Chickens eat probably a hundred times a day. So he started getting skinny.

If he was going to live, he needed treatment.

I took the poor chicken and pinned him between my knees. I drained the infection from his eyes using a paper towel compress. I splashed colloidal silver into both eyes, then made him drink the rest of a teaspoon. I did this every day for a week or two.

One day I went to treat his injuries, and suddenly, I just knew he would survive. Faith rushed through me, with the words, “He’s going to live.”

Alrighty, then. I had my doubts, but I had a lot more confidence.

After a couple of weeks, the infection left one eye. He figured out how to find the feeder and waterer.

But he kept getting thinner, and I didn’t know why.

He got so skinny that I could feel every detail of his breastbone, from the wishbone to his low belly. Almost all the muscle was gone from his legs. Even his comb and wattle (the red things on his face) were shrinking as his body grasped for calories and water.

I gave him a mix of salt, sugar, and apple cider vinegar in his water to fight dehydration. I was worried he’d starve to death.

“You said he was going to live, God. Please don’t let him die. I’m doing my best, and it’s getting worse.”

And then I looked into his feathers and found the newest problem: he was infested with mites.

When an animal’s immune system gets suppressed, it becomes vulnerable to the many things that want to kill it. And mites are SO HARD to get rid of.

I tried the natural route first: diatomaceous earth and ash rubbed into his feathers. I cleaned out all the coops and hosed them with vinegar.

Didn’t work.

I tried the ash and DE again.

Nope.

I put a disgusting amount of garlic and herbs into his water because, supposedly, lice can’t stand the taste.

That didn’t work, either. At least, not fast enough to save his life. (I do think these are great preventatives, but once there are a lot of mites, they’re nearly impossible to kill.)

And unfortunately, now all twenty of my chickens had mites.

I gave in and dusted them with insecticide, breathing in a lot in the process.

I didn’t get sick, thank God, but I definitely had a sore throat.

The things we do to keep animals alive.

My cousin (who lives on a farm) was like, “Madi, why don’t you just chop off his head?”

She had a point. Real farmers finish off an animal that can no longer contribute to the farm.

But God had granted that chicken a second chance, and I didn’t feel I had the right to say that the second chance was over.

Within days of getting Sevin-dusted, the tides turned for Sherman.

He started to recover and have more energy. He gained weight. He even started crowing again.

Sherman is now stable. The infection is gone, the mites are gone, and he’s a healthy weight.

But his eyesight is damaged beyond repair. He can eat and drink, but it’s a challenge. And he can’t find the hens. That’s a problem since I want baby chicks in the springtime.

I have asked God, “You healed him partially. Why haven’t you healed him all the way? I know you can. Please, heal the rooster all the way, so he can benefit my chicken business.”

And yet, three months since the injury, he’s still not back to himself.

I think my main struggle is fearing others will think I’m stupid for keeping him alive. But aside from that, caring for him isn’t a huge inconvenience, and his quality of life is much better now. So it’s been hard to know the appropriate course of action. Is it more merciful to tend him or to end him?

This week, I saw one of my friends on Facebook has a paralyzed rooster living in her house, and her daughter is bringing it back to health.

That made me feel better.

I’ve accepted that Sherman might not contribute to the flock anymore.

At this point, it’s just funny. Charlotte and I go outside every night to shut the chicken coop doors. Sherman waits on the ground since he can’t see straight to climb the ramp.

Charlotte grabs him to put him up where it’s warm. Every time, without fail, he freaks out and screams like she’s about to rip his head off.

So he’s not exactly grateful.

But I’m happy his quality of life is better now. I don’t know if God will ever heal him the rest of the way. But I’m confident Sherman will live (if we can get more greens into him for vitamins—always another challenge!).

Even though it’s been long and hard, this has been a valuable experience.

This made me think: how much is a life worth?

It’s so strange… I’ve butchered chickens before, yet I’ll spend three months nursing this rooster back to health?

I think that’s the power of empathy. We want to see the underdog survive. We want to give him a fighting chance and see what he’ll make of it.

This situation has also shown me the power of a child’s faith. This isn’t the first animal that’s survived because Charlotte prayed.

This has stretched my faith too. So many times I was sure he would die, and I had to hold onto the promise that he wouldn’t. On a fun note, I got to test several natural remedies, so next time there’s an injury, I’m more ready.

And, most importantly, I learned—

Never underestimate the ferocity of a red rooster.

Has one of your animals ever been badly injured? How did you treat it?