Kermit the Rooster
Dad’s Story
Our life with Kermit began with a Facebook post – a then unnamed chick stuck in a drainage canal. It had been there for hours, perched on a piece of rusted metal, crying for help while the water rushed around it. As with most posts, the comments were filled with pleas for help but no offers to attempt a rescue. I began to message with the finder, the canal ran between houses. He had seen the chick hours ago while at his aunty’s house. His aunty had initially offered to let someone go through her yard but had changed her mind citing potential liability. Hours passed and finally one person had gone to view the scene. No way to get in the canal she said and sorry, but she couldn’t stay. The comments continued to stream in imploring someone to help. The thought of the chick, scared and alone, haunted me. I signed out of work, changed my clothes and began the drive to Kāneʻohe.
I got to the neighborhood around lunch. I walked up and down the street but there was no access point to the canal and it was surrounded by seven- to eight-foot tall sheer concrete walls. I found a point 100 yards down the road where I could walk along the canal and spotted him. He was standing alone, as he had for hours, on his rusted metal island surrounded by rushing water. He was either stoic or had resigned himself to his fate. I tried to lower myself down into the canal but realized that there would be no way for me to get back up. The poster’s aunty came out of her house and told me that her husband wasn’t home so she couldn’t offer any help and that the only way to get down into the drain was to rappel down. I debated leaving but I looked at him, so tiny and alone and scared, and couldn’t go.
I decided to follow the canal further upstream. 100 yards later I finally found an access point, a section where the canal narrowed near a church. I climbed down and began the arduous trek downstream, all the way resisting the current and walking like a penguin on ice on the slick algae that coated the floor of the canal.
When I finally reached him, in what would be a common theme in our relationship, he tried to run from me. He flew in an awkward, waist-high, jerky flight and plopped into the rushing water. I “chased” him, if slogging in bare feet on slippery algae against the current in an awkward shuffle counts as a pursuit. He finally succumbed to the current and began tumbling and rolling back toward me. I netted him just as he passed me.
I got back to the car and removed him from the net. He was sopping wet, a fear-cheeping mess of saturated feathers, but he was safe. I wrapped him in my t-shirt and put him in a carrier. At home he was blow dried, given a container home, and named Kermit.
His move to the Nānākuli sanctuary was delayed multiple times. He stayed with us for months, trying unsuccessfully to make friends with our hen Plucky and our Seramas. He remained an eternal baby. Always trying so hard to make friends and running and cowering in his container when his attempt at flock-building was rebuked with a harsh peck on the head. He wasn’t lacking in attention or affection. My partner held him, rocked him, and kissed him, all of which he gratefully accepted. But with me it was always the same, run away and squawk dramatically when I finally caught him. It was the way our relationship began and the way it remained.
When he issued his first, scratchy, hoarse “crow” he came to stay with me at my office for a month. He followed me at arm’s length. He would take dustless dust baths on the rough carpet and preen next to me while I was working but scream and dash away as soon as I stood up. On a few rare occasions he sat on the headrest of my chair but eyed me suspiciously. He hated being in his cage. When the cage door shut he would pace and complain until I let him out again. Instead of thanking me for his freedom he would dash away and survey me from a safe distance. We never achieved the social media-esque cuddly roo and owner dynamic. After a frantic chase, I would finally catch him and make him submit to pets and kisses but he would run as soon as I put him down. A few chicken friends cycled through and despite his desperate efforts, they would sense his softness and peck at him until he ran for safety by my feet.
Eventually we knew it was time for him to go to the sanctuary so he could learn to be a chicken and have species-appropriate friends. I dropped him off and went back a week later to check on him. In true Kermit fashion he ran from me. He peeked at me from a safe corner of the pen but that was the extent of our joyful reunion. I didn’t know that would be the last time I saw him.
I was in Japan on a crowded train when I got the news. Kermit had fallen ill and passed away. He was surrounded by friends and had been buried in the memorial garden with other special friends. I always said that I wasn’t that close to him, that my partner babied him too much, but I broke into tears. I showed my partner the message and we rode in silence back to the hotel.
I walked around my office today and collected the feathers he had shed during multiple preening sessions. I saw his white feather dust contrasted against the dark blue carpet in his favorite preening spots. I hope he enjoyed the few weeks he had of being a chicken. I hope he had friends who accepted him and taught him how to be a real chicken. I wish I could have seen him one last time. I would have chased him, caught him, and given him all the imposed affection he could handle. We shared a special bond that began that day in our shared peril in the rushing waters of the drainage canal. Rest in love Baby Kermy.
Mom’s Story
He was so scared and lonely standing on the floating pile of metal. Can you imagine seeing a small chick standing on rusty scraps in a canal? What would you do? My partner saw the Facebook post requesting help for our sweet Kermit and he immediately jumped into rescue mode. Scaling walls and wading through water, he found and grabbed Kermit and brought him to warmth and safety.
From the moment we brought Kermit into our home, his desire to be a real chicken surrounded by a flock of friends and family members was palpable. Our small home is constantly full of furry and feathered animals: dogs, cats, chickens, you name it—we have them in our family. We’re always cycling rescued chicks, hens, and roosters from the outside world through our home and hopefully, eventually to a forever home with grass, bugs, and other chickens—safer havens away from the dangers of demented boys and men who prefer to use these innocent creatures as gambling tools and test subjects for their violent sadism. Kermit experienced many young pullets and cockerels and adult chickens in his living space, and he always wanted to be part of their worlds. His sensitivity and delicate nature, however, often made it difficult for him to make friends. At one point we had a collection of young chickens: Kermit, Bugle, Nickel, and Lily—two cockerels and two pullets who quickly became a group of siblings. Bugle was the alpha while Kermit was the shyest of them all. He used to sleep next to Nickel and Lily or huddled alone in a corner of their kennel while everyone ate and played together. Bugle would sometimes peck at Kermit to keep him in line, which sent Kermit fleeing into any hidden space he could find or on my lap for comfort. But even when other chickens rejected or scared him, Kermit still wanted to be around them. He’d stare at and go near as many of our temporary foster chickens as possible with friendship as his ultimate goal. I believe his many lonesome days on his small piece of metal in the canal made him yearn for connection and love. And I hope he found some of that desire in us, his human parents.
Kermit stayed in our house for two months before he grew into a small rooster and started crowing. Our neighborhood unfortunately won’t allow roosters, so we had to keep him in a separate third space where he could run around and watch us elsewhere. While we had him at home, when he wasn’t in his kennel with his new siblings, he spent most of his time on my lap or in my hand. I quickly learned Kermit loved sitting in the palm of my hand and on a towel or blanket on my lap. If he got pecked or scared away by another chicken in the house, I’d dash over to him, pick him up, and hold and kiss him as long as I could. He was such a baby, a real mama’s boy who’d immediately melt in my arms and close his eyes while at peace. I could spend hours with him sleeping on my lap, sending emails and typing away while he slept or sat silently. I cherish those days, weeks, and months so much knowing they’d be fleeting once he started to grow and crow. I’d rub his head, massage the space on his back between his wings, and kiss his little eyes every day. I’d tell him how much I loved him, how special and brave he was, and how he was safe with us. His quiet purr and nuzzle against my body felt like he was responding with his shared love.
Unfortunately, his crow came quickly and unexpectedly. He was still a baby to me—still undersized and cheeping constantly until the unmistakable sound of a little rooster arrived. It was time for us to find him a forever home. Thankfully he spent every day with his human dad for a while, running around, peeking at him from behind corners and doors before dashing away like a game. Their weeks together are so precious to us both. But when we had to take him to his forever home, it felt like saying goodbye to our little boy we hand-raised. It was time for him to be a real chicken now, just like he always wanted. Change can be scary though, and I hate thinking about how terrified he must have been in a new and unfamiliar place surrounded by other bigger chickens. While it was easier for him to run up to and then run away from chickens he tried and sometimes failed to befriend, doing so in a new space must have been so difficult for our sensitive and timid Kermy. A few weeks later, we received the devastating news that our baby passed away after falling ill. We weren’t even with him when he got sick. Kermit was always surrounded by love in our home and at his almost forever home, where extremely kind and loving people gave him food, water, and comfort. While I may feel like he was alone, he never truly was.
Kermit was the perfect rooster. He was, like most roosters, sweet, loving, friendly, and cuddly. His life could have been cut short, but instead we were lucky enough to provide him with love, food, and a safe place to rest for so many months. I’m so devastated that we weren’t with him when he grew sick and passed, but I’m thankful for the time I was privileged to be his mom. I hope we gave him as much love as he gave us. Kermit always wanted to be a chicken running free with friends and family that loved him. And now he can.
