One day my husband called me from work and said he wanted to adopt a fighting rooster. The county had confiscated eighteen roosters and they were going to be destroyed at the animal shelter. Out of all those roosters, only one didn’t attack a stick that was placed in the cage to test them. The fact that he just looked at the stick, and then back at the person poking him with it, saved his life. They felt that he could adjust to a normal life with hens.

The roosters all had bald bottoms. Someone had plucked out their feathers. We were warned not to eat him. Needles were found when the roosters were seized and they did not know what kind of drugs were used. Their spurs were cut off, so razor blades could be strapped onto their legs.

We had been talking about getting some chickens, but I did not know what to expect from a rooster that had been bred to fight. My husband laughed when I asked him if that was like adopting a pit bull. He was excited about this new adventure, so I cautiously agreed to it. I never dreamed this amazing, American Game Fowl would leave such an impact on us.

My husband named him Rocky Balboa. He brought him home in the back of the pickup in a wire cage purchased just for him. Sunlight sparked his multicolored feathers just like it does a diamond. There was no red comb on top of his burgundy feathered head. His orange eyes studied me. I saw his curiosity. I sensed his courage and intelligence.

Rocky’s cage was placed on the patio table, while we sat talking. I watched him calm down and strive to reach a bright pink bougainvillea flower petal. I gave it to him and he ate it. I offered a blade of grass and he ate that, too. That was the beginning of our friendship. He was hungry for green, growing things. He loved Swiss Chard and cherry tomatoes.

Several months later, he would offer me blades of grass each time I opened his coop and let him roam. Rocky loved grub worms, but an earthworm was refused with an expression of disdain. He felt the same way about a pill bug (roly-poly). I learned these things while working in my garden and yard, while trying to get to know him.

He would watch me from his first coop and try to come to me. After three weeks we let him loose to roam his new home. He soon became my shadow and loved being in the garden with me. Now, he could forage for himself. He looked beneath rocks, fallen limbs, leaves and scratched for worms. He seemed very contented.

After about three months, I was watching him from the kitchen window, and several crows were trying to be friendly. He looked lonely and sad in the middle of those crows, but he was not interested in their friendship.

My husband had just finished a large, beautiful coop with screened wire to protect the chickens from mosquitos. I told him it was time to get the hens. We were excited about getting fresh eggs. Hopefully, whatever was in Rocky’s system from the shots was gone.

We went the next day and bought three New Hampshire Red Hens. They had just started laying eggs. Rocky was moping out back by the time we returned. When he heard them in the coop, he flew across the yard and started making a ruckus. He dropped his wing and commenced doing circles. He was scratching at the ground like an angry, old bull pawing and bellowing.

In shock, images of roosters fighting flashed into my head. “He’s going to kill those chickens!”

My husband laughed. “We’ll keep them separated for a few days.”

That night Rocky slept on the roost by himself, but come morning he was back showing off his dance moves. Those hens were pressing against the wire that separated them and trying to get to him. I looked in disbelief at my husband.

He was grinning and shaking his head. “Let’s see what happens.”

I opened the door and Rocky rushed inside. Those hens crowded around him and began preening his head and neck feathers. He froze, while they cleaned him. So did we. Contentment and joy were on his face and in our hearts.

Those beautiful hens were so gentle and just in awe of everything. We purchased them from a feed store. I’m not sure they had ever been on grass or on soil. They loved being in the garden with me. They loved Rocky. He was good to them and very protective. He taught them how to find bugs and to eat my flowers.

We named the hens, Adrian, Ginger and Mary Ann. They all had wonderful lives. Rocky has been gone for almost eleven years, but he lives on in our hearts. For nine years he gave us many memories. Dear Readers, I don’t think it’s a coincidence that rescued animals “leave a mark on our hearts.”