The Rooster Problem (and Why It’s Not Really the Roosters)

The last month has been a bit of a blur and I’ll admit that I’ve consumed more coffee then is recommended by a country mile. It’s been one of those months where you can’t quite tell where the days start and end. The sort of stretch of time where every sunset feels like it’s arriving a little too soon, and every dawn barges in uninvited, long before you’re ready for it.

As you may or may not know, my fiancé and I operate a small farm animal rescue. Small on paper, maybe. In our hearts, it’s huge. And in terms of residents? Well… numbers have increased dramatically.

July and August brought a population boom worthy of its own documentary. We welcomed nine roosters and one piglet, tipping our resident tally to: four horses, four goats, two cows, twelve roosters, and three pigs. The paddocks are fuller. The days are busier. The feed bills are heavier. And yet, the place hums with a strange, beautiful chaos that I wouldn’t trade for anything. Today I want to talk about roosters.

The Problem with Roosters

Here’s the thing: there’s actually nothing wrong with roosters themselves. When they’ve got space to roam, when they’re the lone king of a hen-filled kingdom, or in our case, living in their own separate “bachelor” flocks without a hen in sight, they’re perfect little gentlemen. Curious. Playful. Charming in their own feathered way. The problem isn’t the rooster. It’s the world we’ve built around them.

Most councils in Australia have rules about keeping roosters. The specifics vary from one council to another, but there’s one constant: if you live anywhere in suburban areas and sometimes even in semi-rural areas, roosters are not permitted. And even if the rules technically allow it, one neighbour can lodge a noise complaint and suddenly your rooster’s got an eviction notice.

Now here’s the grim truth: in backyard chicken breeding, half the chicks that hatch will be roosters. And when they’re unwanted there’s nowhere for them to go. Sanctuaries fill up. Friends and family can only take so many. The rest? Well, that’s where it gets dark. Very dark.

How We Ended Up With Twelve Roosters

We already had three Cornish Cross roosters - big, heavy-set birds bred for meat. They’re called “meat chickens” or “broilers” in the industry, and they’re usually slaughtered at just six to eight weeks old. So ours have exceeded their typical lifespan by years. It helps to have names for flocks so that we can easily reference them and give them names and these guys are known as “The Mobsters”: Al Capone, Frank Costello, and Carlo Gambino. They’re over two years old now and are eight kilos of living, breathing defiance against the idea that they were only ever meant to be Sunday dinner.

We found ourselves with nine more roosters by responding to a plea for help to save two roosters who were born on a property that wasn’t zoned for roosters. The owners were breeding chickens for fun and these two couldn’t stay any longer. So we gave them a home and I was permitted rare naming rights and named them Silver Wing (Silver) and The Bronze Fury (Fury). Referred to as “The Dragons”.

When Silver and Fury arrived, we learned what had happened to other roosters previously born there: they’d been dumped in the bush as pullets. Barely twelve weeks old, babies who young enough to still make cheeping noises. Out there, they wouldn’t have lasted long. A fox, a dog, a cat, a goanna… it wouldn’t have been much of a fight.

Two weeks later, the same people called again, this time with seven more young roosters. Complaints had been made. Council was planning a visit and fines were coming. The alternative to us saying yes was unthinkable: the bush again.

We had no spare coop, no proper fencing. But we couldn’t turn them away. Which meant we had to scramble and work hard to repurpose an old shack as a coop and build predator proof fencing. Those seven boys became “The Grey-Sloan Crew”.

Are They Noisy?

Yes… and no. Sure, they crow - early, often, and without apology. It’s like living next to a dozen tiny opera singers. But after a while, you stop hearing it. Your brain tunes it out the way it tunes out the hum of a fridge or the ticking of a clock. And we’re lucky that the neighbours are far enough away that the chorus doesn’t reach them.

The thing is, their voices aren’t just noise to me anymore. They’re a reminder. A reminder of why we do this. Of how easy it is for a living creature to become disposable. Of how thin the line is between life and death when the only thing you’ve got going against you… is being born a rooster.

And So…

The rescue is fuller now. Heavier with responsibility, yes, but also richer with life. Each rooster, pig, horse, goat or cow - they’re not just “rescues.” They’re living, breathing stories. Some are short, some are long, but all of them could have ended far earlier if someone hadn’t stepped in.

We can’t save them all. We know that. Some days that knowledge sits on my chest like a stone. But when I walk out in the morning and see The Mobsters scratching in the dirt, The Dragons basking in a patch of sun, and The Grey-Sloan Crew strutting like they own the place, the weight lifts a little.

Because in this little corner of the world, at least for now, they’re safe.

And sometimes, that’s enough.