Registering Gay Roosters

by Gregg Stevens

I recently learned that I will soon be required to register my chickens.

One might naively assume that our elected representatives had a few more important issues to work on in this crazy modern world. But the way we control our poultry speaks volumes as to where we stand as a nation. Besides, mere civilians can hardly be expected to handle the complexity of raising chickens without the help of high paid caring professionals. For instance, we may need guidance on the proper way of attaching the required radio transmitting tags to their tiny ears.

I was not terribly surprised when I heard that the Feds intend to register the nation's animals — livestock and pets alike — with individual ID numbers. After all, my dog and cat are registered. My firearms are registered, and all my vehicles must be registered whether they run or not. My kids' bicycles are registered even though they've never touched pavement. Even my kids are registered with Social Security and the IRS. I myself am registered with a dozen different government agencies. Safeway wanted me to register when I bought a bag of ice there, but I held firm in the face of pressure and now I just shop a Harvest Market. Call me a rebel.

My hens were all eaten by predators, so now I'm stuck with two roosters. But one of them is gay, so they seem pretty happy. I will never get an egg from them, but to see the joy in their little faces when they wake me up every morning more than makes up for it. A fellow does not often sleep in late when he has two roosters. Like the rest of my animals, Shake and Bake serve no real purpose besides entertainment. But watching a rooster chasing cats around the yard with romance on his mind can be quite amusing to a rural kind of guy like myself.

Of course, I intend to fully comply with this new law. That way if I take my rooster to the swimming hole and the high strung State Park cop, with the portable breathalyzer shows up to check IDs and conduct interrogations and write tickets for puppies not leashed, I can whip out my chicken registration and make it through another river day without being cited. If I am cruising town listening to Van Halen with my roosters, I will have nothing to fear when I am randomly pulled over by the Fort Bragg Police Department. And when the gunships are hovering over the property and the livestock is running in terror, I can race outside and hold up my chicken card, and everything will be cool.

Down in Berkeley they have taken this chicken thing to the next level. All poultry in the city limits must be treated humanely, and chicken owners must comply with an extensive list of rules to ensure the happiness of their birds. I don't recall ever actually seeing a chicken in Berkeley. But I rest easier knowing that if one did drop into town he/she would be treated fairly in any kind of business transaction or legal proceedings. If a homeless guy or Mexican without a leaf blower were to appear on the streets of Berkeley, I suspect that the authorities would be on the scene in two minutes flat. But the chickens are given a fair shake, and that's all that matters.

I am not yet sure who I will be registering my birds with, but I assume there'll be some huge bureaucracy created by this new law. An enormous DNA database will be constructed to track the genetic profiles of every chicken in America. Poultry inspectors will be given the powers of arrest and seizure and equipped with state-of-the-art gear. And legislators will battle for the right to preside over the powerful chicken subcommittees. At a local level, the county will hire dozens of chicken counselors. Poultry owners will be encouraged to meet and discuss their visions. A media campaign will blitz the airwaves with public-service announcements. And the chicken protective services people will write articles for the Mendocino Beacon explaining why they have to be so heavy-handed, "It's for the birds."