Rudy, the rooster of Grandview
by Nadine Revheim
Early one Sunday morning in March, 1997 I heard the unlikely
sound of a rooster crowing in the woods off Rte. 9W in Upper
Grandview. Perhaps a recording, I thought, as I rolled over and
tried to go back to sleep. But no. This was the real thing: loud
and incessant, from dawn to mid day.
I'm a morning person. I began listening for the rooster. I
kind of liked hearing him and worried about him the following
month during the ice storm on April Fool's Day. But he continued
crowing lustily and, though I had barely glimpsed him in the
shrubbery, I made sure he could get to the feed intended for
the wild birds.
The next month when new neighbors moved into the house next
door they opened the conversation with, "We have to talk
about that rooster". "He's great, isn't he?" I
said, hopefully. But no. Their thoughts ran to packing him off
to an upstate chicken farm. Clearly not morning people. Capture,
however, proved tricky. During the next weeks he eluded nets,
dogs and baited cages.
About this time we discovered that another neighbor, concerned
for his welfare, was feeding him cracked corn with vitamins.
She had named him Rudy and thought he might be an escaped fighting
cock. When at last
I got a good look at him I could believe it. He was a big
guy. With his chestnut wings, brilliant black tail plumage and
bright red comb, he looked every inch the warrior at the top
of his game.
Rudy crowed louder in the spring as his testosterone levels
rose. He spent the summer roaming the neighborhood, keeping mostly
out of sight, occasionally hunting grubs in my garden, maybe
looking for a chicken.
The lengthening nights of autumn and the darkness of winter
seemed not to deter this rooster. Sometimes I heard him crow
as early at 3:30am and worried when he was silent--especially
during the cold spells of the winter of 1998. But Rudy survived
his second winter in great shape and, regardless of the sleep
deficits he was causing the neighbors, we had to admire his vigor
as he faced the river each morning to greet the rising sun with
joyful noise.
Then, as suddenly as he had appeared among us, he was gone
forever.
Saturday morning, May 22 was a beautiful day. At seven I was
on my deck sipping coffee. Joggers were already on the bike trail.
I hadn't heard Rudy that morning so I looked for him near the
bird feeder under the pine trees. Suddenly the big rooster shot
out from under a clump of bleeding hearts with a fox in hot pursuit--a
red fox with a bushy tail. Flapping powerful wings and screaming,
Rudy threw himself into the air to escape but the fox moved even
faster. Before I could rush to his rescue, it was all over. With
a swift bite, the fox ended Rudy's life. And there was silence.
I called my neighbor to tell her what had happened, that Rudy
was gone. Together we mourned him. Now, some days, the silence
is deafening.
I want everyone--neighbor or passer-by who heard Rudy's crow,
to know his story. Although it's three months since we last heard
him, he's still missed.
