Rescued rooster a happy little Birchen

I take in injured and homeless birds. I’ve had eagles and owls, hawks and falcons, grosbeaks and hummingbirds. There have been a few geese and ducks, lots of gulls, and a great blue heron. And all sorts of window-smacked little birds.

I get pet birds, too. Lots of cockatiels that have become too messy, too noisy, or too mean. There was once a cherry-headed conure, known to birders as a red-masked parakeet, in San Diego, where they roam free in large flocks; a sun conure; and my current love, AnnaMaria, a blue and yellow macaw.

A few days ago, however, I took in the most astonishing bird yet. Someone’s pet chicken. It was a stray – like a stray dog or cat. It was found wandering around in the parking lot of a local bank. This wasn’t a rural bank; this was Sterling Bank on Sherman Avenue in downtown Coeur d’Alene.

It is the cutest little guy; it’s a rooster, after all. A bantam rooster, I guessed. I’m afraid that I was not up on my chicken breeds. I should be, though, as chickens are one of the fastest-growing segments of the pet bird trade. Who would have guessed?

But now I see why. This is one of the sweetest – meaning disposition, this isn’t an eating-type chicken – birds I’ve ever met. He loves to cuddle, or just sit by your side. And my Australian shepherd’s attempts at herding don’t faze him.

He’s distinctively marked in iridescent black and silvery white, with the softest of feathers. He has a bright red waddle and comb, and orange eyes. He has great posture, too.

He also talks a lot – not AnnaMaria-like parrot talk, but happy chicken talk. He seems very content with his life. I became intrigued. What a happy and fun little bird. It doesn’t seem exactly right to just call him a bird, and I hate to call him a chicken. Rooster’s OK, but too vague.

So I started boning up, so to speak, on my domestic fowl breeds. It wasn’t easy. There’s no “Field Guide to the Chickens” that I could find. In fact, I mainly came up with recipes.

I did find one list that contained 126 different chicken breeds. Four are named after states, and many more after cities and countries. There’s even a “black rock” chicken. I had wondered where the name for that local ranch, golf course and development company came from.

It turns out, though, that bantam is not a breed. It’s a descriptive chicken term meaning miniature. So there are lots of bantam breeds; they are just chickens of the smaller variety. By now I was becoming obsessed. I had to find this rooster’s name.

Finally I located the ABA – not the American Birding Association that I would usually turn to for questions about birds – but the American Bantam Association. There are so many bantam breeds! One breed that looked promising for an identification of my new friend was the group referred to as Old English Game Bantams.

There is, of course, a club that looks out for these little guys and gals, the OEGB Club. They list 42 varieties of this one breed alone. They are beautiful birds. I’m just amazed! I’ll never look at live chickens the same again. Somehow I’m managing to keep the fried, baked and broiled varieties in a different part of my brain.

We had chickens on my grandparents’ farm. They were the leghorn and Rhode Island red breeds, and were kept for their eggs. The roosters always ended up in the kitchen, so I never had the chance to get to really know one. The hens were old biddies that always ran. They were just there – nothing special.

But this guy really has personality. So, on to a name.

I looked through all the OEGB varieties, and there he was: a Birchen. This stray little chicken, weighing just 2.2 pounds, is an Old English game bantam of the Birchen variety. And he’s proud of it. He crows and crows when left alone.

In fact, that’s one of the big reasons he’s with me now. The family that rescued him put him in an old rabbit hutch his first night with them. Not far away was the pen for the family beagle. At 5 a.m. the rooster began to crow. When he’d crow, the beagle would bay. Not a great combination for a Saturday morning, especially in the city.

I’m still hoping to find the owner. There can’t be all that many chicken coops in the city. And someone must be missing him. But if not, KFC won’t get its hands on this one. The rooster’s cage is no messier than my son’s area. Perhaps they could room together. And Corey, my dog, dutifully follows along, cleaning up any messes. No, this bird won’t be homeless for long.