I can't imagine keeping a flock of chickens without a rooster. I feel for those who live in the city and can't keep one, and I'm sure I'd get used to it if I had to. It seems to me though, that it would be something less than a complete flock, and having had one I'd miss it.
The rooster is never yours the way the chickens are. When I go outside, my girls run to me. They've been tamed you might say, or perhaps they haven't and they just accept me as another of the flock- the one with food. But the rooster just stays behind and watches me. He seems to be saying, "I don't trust you big mammal. You may have fooled my hens, but I see through you." The girls gather at my feet, Eva is closest, tucks down submissively if I reach for her, she'll let me pick her up and examine her feathers. I check her for lice, for wounds. I check her crop to see that she's eating, look over her feet and the bald patch on her back caused by the rooster mounting her. She's so tame that I tend to use her as a health meter for the rest who won't let me pick them up. The rooster cocks his head at me, he's on alert; I have taken one of his. When I put her back down, he growls quietly. Summer (the welsummer hen) is his favorite, and she comes up and gives Eva a disapproving peck on the head as if to say, "Didn't you hear the rooster? He said 'Keep your distance'!" Or perhaps her message is, "Yes, your friendly with the human, but don't forget, you're still under me in the pecking order."
I walk to the coop to check for eggs, the girls follow me, even Summer; they're still hoping for treats. The rooster knows this and he's jealous. HE is the one that's meant to give them treats. Treats are how you win a hens' affection, he knows this well. But since he has nothing he fakes it.
He begins cooing quietly. 'coo cuckoo coo coo' he says, picking up a leaf and then dropping it repeatedly. He's "tid-bitting". It's the same motion that a mother hen does with her chicks and it means, "I've found something good, come and eat this". Only he has nothing but a twig or an old dry leaf. He clearly feels threatened by the attention I'm getting from them and he's lying. It works though, the girls all run to him and find nothing. He'll often mount one of them too, just to make his point.
When I do bring a treat, he's the first to take it from me. He doesn't want it for himself, sometimes won't eat a bite even if it's something really good, like an apple core. No, he just doesn't want me to give it to them, that's his job. He'll take it from me, run away and then call the girls to him tid-bitting 'look what I found girls, don't forget who gave it to you'! I've never seen him eat anything before them. He looks for nothing for himself, always feeding the hens the best of what he finds. To be honest I've never really seen him eat much at all, probably because he's watching me if I'm around.
So the relationship between me and the rooster is a bit adversarial from his perspective. I'm a giant mammal that he doesn't trust bordering on a strange looking rooster that he doesn't dare fight, but he doesn't want to lose his flock to either. I don't mind the way the views me, I really wouldn't have it any other way. If he was a pet rooster, and overly trusting, would he still be as good of a protector? It could be that I'm mixing things up here, but my sense is that he wouldn't. I look at the flock from the window in the breakfast nook and find that his eyes are always on me. I'm sure he sees me long before I see him. When I'm out working in the garden and hear him growl a quiet "garoo" and then hear all the girls running under the shelter of the avocado tree, I can look up and sure enough; there is a hawk or a crow wheeling about up there. He has alerted for coyotes at the fence, for ground squirrels (well, you can never be too sure) and sometimes for no reason that I'm aware of. I've heard his warnings several times and never been able to find what it was that made him nervous. Sometimes there is a cat stalking a gopher hole outside the fence, sometimes I see nothing. Nevertheless, I trust him, and I'll bet he just saw something I did not. If my poodle comes running into the dog yard, separated from the birds for their mutual safety, and runs against the fence barking (he loves to watch the girls run) Django the rooster will duck his head low in challenge and come running up to face off against Jax. If he fears him at all, he will never show it. I sometimes think that fence is better for Jax's protection than for the birds.
In all, the rooster to me is the spirit of the flock. He reminds me that these were once dwellers of a tropical forest. He reminds me that they aren't commonplace and plain, but they are actually exotic, mysterious, and social animals that have found a niche in our world. He reminds me of what's important to me when raising animals for food- keeping them in such a way that they are not simply fed and housed well, but also given the opportunity to express their nature. He remembers his instincts, even if some of the hens have forgotten some of theirs. He is a tiny dinosaur; a chivalrous thing in hard feathered armor. He's armed with his beak, his instincts, his devotion, and not least two sharp and hard spurs pointing behind him on his hard scaled legs. He can leap into the air higher than my head when startled. It's a good thing for both of us that he doesn't ever attack me (I've had others that do) or I'd have no choice but to prepare him for dinner. Frankly, I wouldn't feel safe around him.
As I leave the yard, Django beats his wings audibly against his sides three times, and then crows. To the west of my yard in the distance another rooster answers, one of my neighbors must have one as well. They may call and respond a few more times: "This is my yard and my flock! You are not welcome!"
