My neighbor’s rooster starts in each morning around six, with two sharp bursts of sound that ricochet off my bedroom wall, followed by a long, shrill cry like the whistle of a falling mortar shell, as loud as a jet engine. Then it comes again. And again. All day long, his crowing slices through my work calls, lunch breaks and my rare attempts at meditation. Just when I crave peace and quiet, I get this feathered loudmouth living next-door.
Chickens are legal here in Salt Lake City, but roosters are not. My neighbor, a friendly 20-something, got this one by accident, mixed in with a batch of nearly identical, fluff-ball chicks. I can hardly blame him; I can’t even tell which one is the rooster now. Research tells me it can take months for one to show his traits — bony leg spurs, a jagged red comb, a droopy wattle that jiggles under his chin during a courtship dance called tidbitting and, of course, that piercing crow. I feel no sympathy, but I want no trouble either. So I gradually learn to sleep through his wake-up calls.
The smell is another matter. I’ve found claims online that clean roosters smell like “fresh laundry.” I can tell you with certainty that this is not true. My neighbor’s chickens live in a coop, a bare enclosure of wood planks and barbed wire just across the fence that separates our two yards. Each morning when I walk by, I’m greeted with the aroma of damp mud mixed with stale manure. I avoid the flock’s beady eyes, convinced that whichever one is the rooster can sense my growing irritation and could find some new way to retaliate.
One night, coming home, I glance over to find the coop in ruins — planks scattered, wires sagging, feathers strewn everywhere. As it turns out, a raccoon attacked while I was away, killing two hens. There was nothing the rooster could do. I imagine how defeated he must feel. For the first time, I watch with curiosity rather than resentment as the survivors roam the lawn while my neighbor rebuilds the coop. He’s hammering shingles onto the new roof when I finally ask him which one is the rooster. “That gray guy,” he says, pointing to the smallest bird, mottled with soft cream and butter-yellow feathers, with a ruby-red punk-rock comb and a tail arched like brushstrokes.
I start watching through my kitchen window as the rooster patrols the yard. Chest puffed, he scolds bickering hens and hogs the heat lamp on cold nights. I read up on his complex social behaviors, distinct alarm calls for different predators, and the light-sensitive pineal gland that urges him to crow, an action woven into our mythologies from Africa to ancient Greece, Asia to Scandinavia. When visitors complain, I find myself defending his squawks like an old friend’s quirks. One afternoon, I find him perched on a sunny plank by the fence. He tilts his head, one watchful eye on me, and starts softly clucking. At last, an uneasy peace.
This story appears in the March 2026 issue of Deseret Magazine. Learn more about how to subscribe.