Until recently, our rooster didn’t have a name. He was simply called “The Rooster.” We felt that no title could do justice to his arrogant cockiness. He reigns over a kingdom as far as the eye can see. From a chicken’s eye view, that is only about three hundred feet. However, to The Rooster, such trivial details regarding size and distance obviously do not matter. Although we are nearly three times as tall, apparently that makes no difference to him. Every run in with The Rooster seems to mirror a David versus Goliath struggle - with The Rooster playing Goliath!”Chicken wrangler” is the standard job title for us students who are dealing with hens this summer in Randolph College’s Organic Garden, but with the addition of The Rooster our job seems closer to “Matador.” As I enter the bullring, the rooster begins to charge. I pull out my red bandana to distract him. Olé! Often times an audience of forty or so amused chicks gathers around to watch the spectacle. Following a series of deft maneuvers that include some impressive passes, I usually succeed at luring him into the chicken coop for the night. Next, I try my luck with the balls of fluff, employing more maneuvers that make herding cats look simple. After getting a good chuckle out of my pitiful attempts at baby chick wrangling, The Rooster will let out a cock-a-doodle-do signaling all the chicks to obediently get in the coop.The chicks already knew The Rooster’s name. Now I know it, too: he is “El Jefe,” aka “the Boss.” I have a lot to learn. Olé!