What I Learned About Being “Fully Self” From a Featherless Rooster
His name was Scruff
The winter that year was bitter with harsh winds and weeks of deep freeze temperatures.
He had to be kept in a house with more dominant roosters for the winter. By the time spring came, the young bird had so few feathers that most of his body was bald. All that remained were a few black pinfeathers on his wings and tail. His wattle and comb were often bloodied from the other inmates picking at him.
He was too quiet, too docile; the other birds didn’t like him.
We moved him in with the hens when spring came, but the rooster there didn’t appreciate a new guy moving in on his territory. We left the small door in the wall open for him so he could bolt as soon as the sun started revealing its early morning light.
During the day, the pink-skinned bird mostly lay low, hiding in bushes and under buildings. Once in a while, he would make an appearance near the house, and someone would exclaim, “There goes that naked chicken again!”
My sister-in-law bestowed the name Scruff on him. It was fitting; he really was scruffy looking.
