At first, I thought the strong winds were catching him in the tail and propelling him. That theory proved incorrect when he still ran when it was calm. (His head has not been cut off.)
He sometimes loses it entirely, falls down on his tail, flaps his huge wings and squawks loudly. The most unfortunate part of rooster's dementia is that he no longer stays with the girls and protects them.
A Ga-Ga Hen
Buffy, having been pecked on her head one time too many by the rooster and his accomplice, the Rhode Island Red hen, has taken to walking backwards. Her latest nutso behavior is to run squawking around the yard. A few of days ago, the routine sounds of distress changed tenor. I found Buffy in the jaws of one of the neighbor dogs, who was unable to resist running prey. Enough feathers were pulled out to fill a small pillow.
She stayed in the nest box for days. Yesterday morning, I found Rupert stuffed in the box with her, absently pecking her on the head. He looked like he was trying to remember the rest of his routine. I pulled him out.
Yes, I know I should put him out of his misery or leave him out for a coyote meal. With all his eccentricities, he does manage to wander back to the coop at dusk. He no longer can get on the roost, making him a restless, roostless rooster. He beds down in the straw or in one of the nest boxes.
Rupert is only three or four years old, but in chicken years, it's time to cull fowl.
