INSPIRATION FROM MY OTHER "LADIES"

After a long hiatus from posting a new blog entry, inspiration finally hit and now my fingers are literally flying on the computer keys as I type this new post. That inspiration has come from my little feathered offspring that are now running in my yard, decorating it like many colored rainbows in the sky. Except they are on land. Their wide assortment of colors adds life to my otherwise drab-looking yard in the summer when the sun’s heat has mercilessly turned the once-verdant grass to a lifeless withered brown. I know I wax overly romantic and sentimental when I describe my little ones and I make no apologies for that. When it comes to my hennies, I can profess a love that I am sure all breeders and true-blue cockfighting aficionados will understand. Thankfully, my wife understands—on the condition that when I step inside the house, all my attention is fixed on her and her alone. I, of course, am very amenable to this arrangement.

So let me go back to the object of my affection in my yard—my hennies. I have hatched quite a good number this year when demand spurred me to finally buy an incubator for the first time in my life. You will know from my previous posts that I am a staunch believer of the natural method—that is, hen-hatching and hen-brooding all the chicks. But I finally had to give in to technology when I realized that I couldn’t possibly keep up with the need to produce more of my Ironladies if I simply relied on my hens.

Although I still believe in the merits of the natural method, I am thankful for the incubator because of the many, many hennylets (my term for small hennies born last December, January, and February) that are now gleefully running around in my small range area. Imagine seeing hennies of all shapes and sizes; with toppies (thanks to Calvin Randall of Paradise Gamefarm Bacolod for the materials) and without; greys, reds, whites, buliks, gold, blacks. It’s literally a feast of the senses for me.

The best part is when I call them to give their daily rations. The minute I give the “call,” they spring like canons from wherever they happen to be resting to run to me like wildfire. Most gather around my legs, but the few whom I have a special affinity for fly up to my head and shoulders, as if to tell me that I should give them extra because they are special.

Feeding is a family affair as my son and daughter excitedly go out to help, fetching water in their small pails and watering the chickens. I don’t let them handle the feeding part, though, because they have the propensity to overfeed—something that the chickens welcome but my feed budget doesn’t. Driven by the innate curiosity of childhood, my (human) offspring are full of questions that I sometimes find difficult to answer: Daddy, why did God create chickens? I was tempted to answer: To give joy to the cockfighters, sweetheart. But then I realized that it would lead to more complicated queries so I settled for: So that our yard will look beautiful. They seemed content with that.

Taking care of my baby hennies makes me forget time or some depressing concern. Just seeing them each day lowers my blood pressure and feeding the older cocks gives me the exercise I need. When they are fully-grown, I know I will be able to see if they are the deadly warriors in deceptive hen feathers that I bred them to be. But for now, I am content to watch my hennies run and play and embellish my yard with colors.

I would not trade this kind of life with my chickens for any riches in the world. Of course, if I can have riches and my chickens at the same time then I would be very happy man indeed. But then, where’s the fun in that?

Downside

Summer is over and the rains have become a regular feature in our everyday lives. It is a joy to watch cockerels and baby pullets running around the lush green grass of my little backyard. Nature seems to sport new leaves, so to speak, with birds flying about in high spirits and the once-dry creek that runs adjacent to my yard gurgling once more after a heavy downpour. I especially enjoy watching the late hatches as they strive to survive the elements at this time of the year. Despite the unfavorable weather conditions and the fact that they are my would-be breeders, I decided still to hen-hatch, hen-brood them. You see, I want them to be tougher and stronger than the ordinary fowls. The rains and the damp weather have done their fair share of damage already: A number of these chicks have already perished. But the stronger ones are still battling it out and I keep crossing my fingers every day that they’ll make it to the breeding pens.

A favorite among my late hatches are the Cowans. Since this pair is the most recently acquired among my fowls, I am very keen on monitoring their condition. There’s not many of them left after nature’s culling process, so there’s one particular chick that I’m very fond of. Instinct tells me that he’s going to make a fine broodcock one day.  As I was admiring this little creature one morning, a hawk swooped out of nowhere and snatched this precious chick away. I could only helplessly look and gnash my teeth in anguish. My future broodcock, F1 of my imported pair, has literally flown away never to return. Who’s next? I contemplate as I look at the chicks left roaming the range. Will it be my Ray Alexander Lacy’s or my Radios? No one knows. I do not know when that hawk will come swooping down again. What I’m certain of is that it will come back once it grows hungry again.

I guess this is the bad side of the natural method. Predators are always on the lookout for careless hens with sumptuous chicks in tow. But I suppose this is part and parcel of my breeding method of hen- hatching and hen–brooding. I have to accept that in all breeding methods, there is always a downside. Nothing else can be done except to start over again.   

To Sell or Not To Sell

It's a rainy Saturday morning here once again and when I cannot do anything except watch my gamefowls from the porch, I am left with nothing productive except to play with the kids, check out the funny, weird and sometimes heart-breaking posts at Facebook and of course try to update this site which I haven't done for quite some time now. And as far as my blog is concerned, well, I must plead guilty for neglecting it.

But the rains seem to have done my writer's block a world of good. As a nurse, I couldn't think of a medical reason why no matter how hard I try, I couldn't put all my thoughts into a coherent piece on the screen, hence the long hiatus from making any blog entry. So as the rain pours on, I type furiously on the keyboard, somehow holding the irrational fear that if the rain stopped, so would the flow of words. God forbid!

I only maintain a small number of fowls a year. If I had my way, I would keep them all for myself and I think every breeder somehow feels the same way, whether they admit it or not. There is a certain feeling of power (and perhaps a little selfishness) that comes from being able to create a pit warrior from the breeding materials you own that it can be very hard to let a stag or cock or even a feather go.

But all breeders know that it's difficult to maintain this hobby. Cockfighting and breeding requires not only a substantial time investment but financial allocation as well. We spend money for feeds, vaccination, housing and medicines when our prized fowls get sick. This does not include the money we spend for getting the best materials. And I am sure that you will agree with me when I say that we do not want to spend for, much less care for and breed, second-rate breeding materials.

As I have said, I would have preferred to keep my fighters for myself. But doing so would only be too financially draining on the pocket. I do not want my hobby which gives me immense joy and satisfaction to be burden to my family who I love first of all. Thus, like most breeders, I sell.

I always feel genuine sadness when I let my fowls go. After all, I treat them like family. I know when they're hungry, when they are not feeling their best or when they are ready to whip other roosters in the pit. So it is always with unhappiness when I sell.

But you know what makes this feeling worse? It's when I see my fowls go “off” or cease to perform the game I know they are really made of when I see them being subjected to unnatural conditioning methods like what my friend did who financed a derby entry. The rigorous training he subjected my fowls to included dropping a substantial amount of my bird's bodyweight drastically and letting it do exercise routines that even Manny Pacquiao would object to.

Sometimes, I am even relieved when a buyer decides to back out at the last minute. Although it can be frustrating since I always believe in honoring commitments, there is a tinge of happiness when I get to keep my fowl in the end.

Still, the fact remains that I need to keep on breeding. And if I want to continue to engage in this hobby for life (which I intend), I have to let my fowls go. I can only hope and pray that those who got fowls from me will take care of them the way I do. This is every breeder's wish, I suppose, and what every self-respecting sabungero ought to do. For in the end, how we treat our fowls is a reflection of us and the dignity, honor and respect we give not only to our fellow cockers and breeders but to the age-old tradition that has defined our identity as a nation.

Of Asil-Hennies and Daydreams

 

I believe that in the long-knife, the most important ability that a rooster must possess is cutting ability. Take ‘cutting ability’ to mean the capability of a rooster to kill its opponent quickly (Hidalgo). In thePhilippines, there are instances when even roosters who are not dead game can still win a fight. This is because in slasher fighting, a single stroke can be enough to deliver a mortal blow.


Asils are known for their uncanny cutting ability. They are sometimes regarded as the ‘walking birds’—everytime they make a pass, they connect and they connect deep. A solitary hit is enough to maim or kill its opponent instantaneously. And this they do without any fancy shuffling or tattooing, as it is often called. With a nervous blood inherent in them, they are very cautious and wary when they fight. Thus, they don’t normally mix up with their opponent, rather, they gracefully sidestep and backpedal when circumstances warrant it.


Meanwhile, hennies are the subject of much debate in the cocking world today- the issue being whether they should be allowed to join derbies or not. Those who argue against their joining point to the henny’s deceptive looks that throws the regular rooster off his game. In most cases, the regular roosters would strut upon release when pitted against a henny—apparently thinking that the opponent is a hen. Hence, most of the time, the henny enjoys the first blow.


If my observations are on track, a fusion of the cutting ability of the asil and the deceptive looks of the henny would make for a superior pit warrior. As I look at my monstrous, callous-faced, dirt-looking asil-hennies, I have a recurring daydream which I’d like to share with you. Please indulge me on this: Imagine a handsome, imported sweater cock pitted against a henny. Upon release, this sweater rushes to the henny. However, upon seeing what looks like a hen instead of cock, it desists and instead struts in front of it with only one thing in mind—topping it. The henny, meanwhile, waits patiently for the sweater to be within striking distance. And when it did, it strikes its bone-crushing fatal blow that sends the sweater spiraling to its death, not even knowing what hit him. The asil-henny finishes its superb performance with relentless shuffling until the poor imported rooster succumbs and dies.


As I drift back to reality, I realize that this is really one of the reasons why I strive to develop and constantly improve my asil-hennies. Everyone of us wants to dominate this sport. I couldn’t care less if asil-hennies are ugly birds. After all, at the end of the day, what matters most is that they cut, and they win.

Of Cockfighting and Friends

PHOTO CREDIT: VISTAR

I have been a cocker since I was 3 years old. My love affair with chickens began when I was a chubby boy growing up in war-ravaged Mindanao. I distinctly remember the day I pocketed a chick who was basking in the sun while I accompanied my mother in the river as she did the laundry (yes, washing machines were unheard of back then). I never told my mother about it. An old suitcase became the "home" my precious little Butchoy. When Butchoy would chirp, I would put a blanket over it to muffle the noise. Of course, my parents eventually found out and thankfully, they allowed me to keep my bird. From then on, the chick and I became inseparable and I would bring it to the table during meal times. Unfortunately, that was not such a good idea as it was also where Butchoy met his end. One morning, while we were having breakfast, Butchoy excitedly ran and went straight to my father's scalding hot coffee. My poor chick died that day but my love for chickens has never waned from that day on.

In my journey as a cocker, I have met many people who also share the same passion. Young and old alike, my circle of friends who are also fascinated with these feathered warriors come from all walks of life. Some are very rich, others have enough to live decently while still others have to work hard to eke out a living. But when we meet, the stature in life or in society takes a backseat. During these times, the talk simply centers on chickens, bloodlines, and the performance in last Sunday's hackfight or the score in a recently-concluded derby. Hours seem like minutes when cocker friends gather and if we had it our way, we would spend the whole day holding the roosters, sparring them, and discussing their attributes.

Indeed, cockfighting is a social sport. We need to surround ourselves with friends who also share the same degree of interest in the sport. With them, you can actually voice out concerns you had about your birds that you can't even share with your wife. With fellow cockfighting aficionados, it's perfectly normal to compare the attributes of an Asil to that of the Sweater. You can talk about station preference, conditioning methods, and supplements used without worrying that you'll get an eyebrow raised in confusion. In this circle, the world revolves around chickens, roosters, hens, chicks, and cockfighting and everyone is happier because of it.

It would be a lonely endeavor to engage in cockfighting by yourself. If you close yourself off from the rest of the breeders and cockers in this world, there would be no chicken talk over beer and chips. There would be no one to brag to after winning a fight. There would be no chicken jokes to share. While going around your yard full of chickens can be relaxing and gratifying, having fellow cockers to talk to completes the whole experience. As a breeder and cocker, your fellow cockers are your better halfs. In your birds, you have crowing connection that binds you to each other for life.

Chicken talk, anyone?

Smell the Roses

It's been a long time since my last blog entry. Between work, breeding and family, it's getting to be a challenge finding time for my blog entries for this site. But I was finally able to squeeze it in today, and what I am about to write serves as a reminder for me too. 

For most breeders, the ideal is being able to hit the magic formula-- that perfect "nick" that enables our fowls to dominate derbies and hackfights. This does not necessarily mean that we aim to win in all our fights. It's the mindset of every breeder to create fighters that slug it out until the end, that give us pride and pleasure in dying an honorable death despite having lost the battle. And it is part of our psyche, too, to breed these warriors in the shortest possible time.


However, we all know for a fact that this is rarely the case. Unless you are uniquely gifted, we all know from experience that breeding takes time-- lots of it. It takes patience, too. And lots of grit and willpower to keep on working at it. It takes a lot of courage too. For as we continue to breed and fight our breeds, we are going to experience losses along the way. Even in the early stages of hatching, death is inevitable. Every breeder needs to have the heart of a lion if you even wish to arrive at a fraction of where you want your breeding program to be.


That is why this is a timely reminder for all of us breeders and cockfighting afficionados to take time out and smell the roses. Every stage in the breeding process has its own little joys and minute pleasures that need to be fully experienced. From hatching to ranging to cording to fighting, we all have to learn to relax and sit back and enjoy the view, so to speak.


Have you ever experienced helping a chick break through the shell-- that you had to literally dissect it so it has a chance at survival? I have, and the feeling is out-of-this world. Have you ever experienced restoring to health a very sick, near- death chicken? The moment it crows, you know that you have done one hell of a job. On the other end of spectrum, have you ever experienced your favorite cock-- the one that you take extra time to care for and feed, the one that you saved so long for just to be able to acquire it-- scorched to death by the hot sun because it got tangled in the teepee, and just for that 30-minute interval you were out buying feeds for them? You know how heartbreaking that can be.


The whole process of breeding has its pros and cons, its happy moments and its down times. You have to singularly experience each one of these if you ever wish to make your time in it worthwhile. It's just like being in love to the girl you have married. You know the song that says "I'd rather have bad times with you than good times with someone else"? This mirrors how it is with the breeder and his fowls. Through all the good and bad, the key to optimum enjoyment is to simply smell the roses.

Of Rains and Suspended Paralysis

The heavy rains that's been going on for almost a week here in Negros has really given new meaning to the word "summer". The once dry creek that runs adjacent to my backyard is gurgling once again, giving a considerable dose of shock to all things living--human and fowls included. The onset of rains at such an inappropriate time of the year has led to some rather peculiar happenings in my little backyard.

My 11-year old trusted gold hen decided that the the downpour was too heavy for her and sought shelter in our front porch, under the bamboo chair. One of my breeding pens got flooded that when I checked the following morning, I thought a duck had replaced my Albany hen who was already scheduled to hatch in five days. Well, the eggs won't be hatching anymore as they literally swam in the puddle. But my ever industrious Albany decided to sit on them anyway until I had to transfer her to a holding pen until she regains her sanity. My January-born also succumbed to the weather and battled with colds.

In a way, everything in my yard underwent a sort of paralysis. I'm sure you understand the feeling of being in a suspended state when the rains come. You can't really move as freely as you like. It seemed that way even for my chickens who aren't as energetic as before. Even their morning crowing is a bit contained.

But life still goes on. I still have to go out and feed them, even if I had to skip puddles as I went from one teepee to the next. The chicks who were strong enough survived and the others who didn't have it in them died and went to gamecock limbo. And in between moments of wanting to curl up in bed and admiring my tough warriors shivering under the cold of my backyard in the little Baguio of Negros Oriental, I found time to write this blog.

There's something to be gleaned in the changing of the seasons. Like the wins and losses of our chickens in the pit, our lives are closely intertwined with the weather. Rains, like losses, might dampen our spirits for a while but the sun will come around to give us the spirit and energy to move and win once again. It's best not to fight the cosmic cycle that marks our existence, but flow with it, savor it and live it. As a writer, nurse, husband, father, son, cocker, breeder and human being, it's how I make sense of it all.... and keep my blood pressure manageable, too. .