White trash memories; hard life lessons

An organized rooster fight can be stopped in one of three ways: one bird (the winner) kills the other outright, a referee can declare one bird the winner if he has so badly beaten his opponent that there is no real fight left (this keeps the action in the pits moving along), and an owner can forfeit a fight before his bird is killed so that he might save it to use as brood stock or even to fight it again later.

After the referee declares a fight, the losing bird is in bad shape, full of spur holes and bacteria, suffering from blood loss and trauma. As a joke, the bird owners that came to our place for the fights sometimes gave half-dead birds to me, an eight to eleven year old, knowing I would nurse them and care for then the best I could, until their inevitable death. It was a joke on my dad, but I never knew that until I was grown. One such bird, a big Dixie Blue Shuffler, was my favorite. I was ten years old.

Every hour, I fed Dixie milk-soaked bread, cornmeal mush and water. I put medicine in his water. I set his broken wing with masking tape. I sang to him and covered him at night. He was getting better, I was sure. But, my dad kept pestering me to trade Dixie for a sleek and sparkely blue-black three-spurred Sumatra stag.

Finally, I agreed to the deal, knowing that Daddy was so much better at caring for sick animals. I figured that 'that ol' bird' would be up and around in no time, under my daddy's care.

In the hot July sun, we met in the middle of the barnyard, the Sumatra's tail feathers glistening against Daddy's faded bib overalls. I handed off Dixie, dirty masking tape trailing like streamers. I took the firmer and lighter young bird, trying not to crush his long dark feathers.

Suddenly, Daddy grabbed Dixie's neck and flipped him over and down. My father's arm jerked up as the bird's body reached the end of the arc and I heard the dull crack of neck bones separating and sinew stretching. I felt like someone had planted a man-sized fist in my belly. I managed to cry out, "Daddy--you killed my bird!" Daddy leaned down and looked into my teary eyes and said, "No, Fuzzy, I killed my bird. He stopped bein' your bird when you traded him off..." He turned and walked out of the barnyard, tossing the carcass onto the burn pile as he passed.