Years ago, like everybody else I knew who resided in rural southeast Alabama, Cletus Monroe’s Aunt Rossie kept a chicken yard. Surely y’all remember those, don’t you? You know, a piece of backyard enclosed by a high poultry-wire fence containing a variegated flock of nondescript domestic fowl whose sole purpose in life was the semi-reliable provision of breakfast eggs and the occasional sacrifice of one of its own for the nourishment of visiting preachers and freeloading family. Of course you do.

Anyhow, in Aunt Rossie‘s chicken yard,

presiding regally over

his feathered harem, was a big old red-and-black rooster named Shagnasty. During the fall of our 11th year, Shagnasty began to intrigue Clete and me.

The reason for this rapt interest in Aunt Rossie’s old stud bird (other than his frequently conducting some very animated chicken-yard sex-ed classes) was my boyhood fascination with fishing and the great sporting writers of the era. As a budding angler, I had taken to devouring articles in cast-off magazines written by such legendary scribes as Ted Trueblood, A.J. McLane, Charlie Elliot, and the immortal Ed Zern. Many of these stories had to do with fly fishing and fly tying.

Having recently come into possession of a cheap, hand-me-down fly rod, I was teaching myself to cast. With the poorly thought-out exuberance of the very young, I was convinced I could also teach myself the fine points of the flytier’s art. Hence, I also understood the importance of a good supply of hackle.

Hackle, the neck feathers of an adult rooster, was a major component of many of the colorful fishing flies described so eloquently in the prose of my outdoor-writer heroes. To become a fly-tier myself, I thought, I must have some hackle of my own. Not that I had the slightest idea what to do with it. I just knew it was required.

Now, there were few fly-tying supply catalogs floating around Ashford, Alabama, in those days and money was scarce. Harvesting my own hackle, however, seemed like a viable option. Clete, as usual, eventually became a reluctant accomplice.

Enter Aunt Rossie’s Shagnasty.

I tell you, that old rooster was one hackled-up son-of-a-gun. His neck sported beautiful iridescent feathers that gleamed brightly in the sunlight, particularly when he raised them in anger or agitation, which he was wont to do quite often. The big bird’s short temper, however, didn’t deter Clete and me. After all, what harm could one rooster, albeit a big mean one, possibly do to such hale and hearty young lions as ourselves?

Catching Aunt Rossie gone one afternoon, the two of us entered the chicken yard and began chasing Shagnasty from one end of the wired enclosure to the other.

Now, it is a well-known fact that a dog chasing cars will sooner or later “catch” one. Likewise with 11-year-old boys who chase roosters, no matter how fleet and agile the rooster may be. The results, as well, are quite similar.

Clete caught old Shagnasty around three o’clock that afternoon. He turned him loose somewhere around, say, 3:05. In between, the belligerent cock wielded his beak and dagger-like spurs like switchblades in a New York gangfight, the worst part coming when Clete slipped and fell after stepping into a big glob of slick, gooey chicken-yard “debris.”

Finally, I saw an opening. With Shagnasty distracting Clete by trying to peck and scratch out his eyes and Clete strategically distracting Shagnasty with flailing arms and bloodcurdling screams, neither combatant noticed as I deftly dashed in, extracted a handful of the coveted hackle feathers, and hurriedly exited the chicken yard. Seconds later, Shagnasty gave up the fight when he noticed a young cockerel trying to take advantage of the situation by romancing one of his fickle hens. He left Clete to vent his wrath upon the rival upstart.

Ripped, bleeding, clothing all in shreds, Clete staggered through the chicken-yard gate looking quite dazed and addled. I grinned at him excitedly, clutching the ill-gotten feathers in my cute clenched fist.

“Got ’em!” I triumphantly cried.

Clete’s own clenched fist was noticeably empty and not nearly so cute when it collided with my cherubic nose. To this day, I’m still wondering where he learned those wonderful cuss words at such a young and innocent age.

By the way, the flies I later tied with Shagnasty’s hackle feathers didn’t much resemble those in my magazines. Looking at them now, you’d think they were made by an 11-year-old.

(Email Bob Kornegay at cletus@windstream.net.)