In the summer of my 10th year, I began my first job outside of my family's ranch. I wasn't the only one; my friends were beginning jobs too. But while they were busy in-haling deadly Kool-Aid fumes, wearing out their arms throwing papers and keeping a steady eye out for the guy in the windowless van offering candy and puppies, I was beginning work with a highly illegal cockfighting operation. This was a dream job for any animal lover like myself. I felt like the coolest thing on three legs.
My employer was once a well-respected insurance agent, yet insurance agenting was not his passion. Retirement gave him time to pursue his true love: watching chickens kill each other. This man was not your average cockfighter. He was El Presidente of the American Cockfighting Association or some such thing. He was the Cock of the Walk, if you will.
I developed a deep affection for my boss over roughly eight years of employment. As a professional courtesy, I have chosen to keep him anonymous, but not nameless - I'll just call him "the Lorax," since I have a deep affection for that little guy as well. I was envious of the Lorax's cockfighting clothes. He often wore brightly colored hats and shirts that said things like "The Sport of Kings" or "Feathered Warriors." I proved my loyalty to the cause by purchasing a hunter's orange hat from a truck stop that read, "Kansas is Big Cock Country." I lost a little street cred (farm cred?) when I realized the picture on my hat was actually of a pheasant, but that's beside the point.
My job on the cock ranch had more to do with maintenance than actual fight planning. I would feed and water over 1,000 roosters while the Lorax trained a select few to be tiny, feathered killing machines. Training involved a series of injections, primping and mock bouts. The Lorax could usually pick the fiercest fowl just by tracing their blood lines, which he had mapped for generations. Top breed roosters can sell for thousands of dollars.
There is a very strong pecki ... yeah, pecking order among roosters. The smallest birds often have to fight with larger birds for food, territory and mating rights. Losing to another bird in battle is a death sentence among fighting cocks. A defeated rooster is ostracized by the rest of the brood. Shunned and cut off from food and water, the loser is left to die on the outskirts of the ranch. This would be an extremely sad story if in fact it were true and I didn't just make it up to spark some emotion in you heartless bastards.
Any cock handler worth his weight in chicken feed can tell you that roosters do not usually kill each other with their beaks. The fatal blows almost always come from a pointed bone spur located just above the foot on either leg. For the fights these spurs are cut off and replaced with razor-sharp metal blades. These artificial appendages allow for a quicker, more humane kill, because cockfighting is all about being humane. Trainers choose from a wide assortment of "needles" and "scythes" to transform their feathered warriors into mini-raptors.
I was not a regular at the actual fights. When my boss took 10-20 cocks to battle I remained to look after the rest of the brood. This meant more than just feeding and watering. I have been very comfortable with firearms since I was a kid. The Lorax offered me a bounty for any foxes, coyotes, skunks or raccoons I shot to protect the birds. He kept a .22 and a Browning, pump-action shotgun in his shed for this very purpose. I never shot Bambi's mom or anything like that, but the guns did come in handy more than once.
I was filling buckets with grain one summer morning when a windowless van pulled into my boss's driveway. I was 13 and past my prime for attracting pedophilic men, but I knew the guys in this van were not in the business of candy and puppies. They were after purebred fighting cocks. As the men rattled Spanish back and forth and worked hurriedly on one of two car batteries that kept the perimeter fence juiced, I grabbed the 12-gauge and stepped out of the barn. I was 13 and had clearly seen far too many Westerns. I yelled some guttural noise at the thieves and wracked the gun. There is nothing more instinctually terrifying than the sound of a shell being forced into a shotgun chamber, even when that shotgun is being held by a 13-year-old (although I swear I looked 13 1/2). The thieves fled. That afternoon was the first time I took up the drink with a real purpose.
Though roosters are not the cuddliest of animals, fighting cocks do possess a number of endearing qualities. There is a bond between the cocks, even during a fight. The birds give each other a look that says both "forgive me brother," and "I'm going to peck your f---ing eyes out!" These creatures are perhaps God's greatest success.
Cockfighting has been around for ages. I think I once heard Gordon Wood argue that Caesar scrapped that whole tired gladiator shenanigan after he realized that there is nothing more entertaining than watching two flightless birds with bad attitudes fight to the death. I can't be certain though.
There has been a serious movement of resistance to the whole principle of cockfighting. For instance, fights are banned in 48 states and the District of Columbia. While most states require sports programs for our nation's youth, only Louisiana and New Mexico afford these same benefits to our feathered friends. Fights to the death are perhaps the best source of exercise a rooster can get. I guess discriminating against certain feathered members of our society is the cool thing to do these days. This is largely in part to groups like People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals, which I will add is quickly rising to the top of my shizzle list. Think about it: The letters that make up PETA can be re-arranged to say "TEA-P," and that is chock-full of ugly racial and ethnic connotations. We don't need your hate PETA! White devils!
The job helped me build character that only comes from hard work. On the other hand, it also helped me build a serious lust for hops that only comes from the guilt of being partly responsible for the deaths of thousands of beautiful birds.
In closing, I urge all of you to gamble as often as possible, but not with drugs or hobos. That always leads to trouble. Yeah, I guess you shouldn't gamble on cockfights either.
Hugh Murphy '06 aspires to be a feathered warrior after graduation.
