Buddy: The Pet Rooster Who Changed a Family

Coming to love a cocky rooster and learning how to live with animals helps one man grow up.

| January 2013

Buddy: How A Rooster Made Me A Family Man

In “Buddy: How a Rooster Made Me a Family Man,” author Brian McGrory eventually sees the rooster he’s inherited, Buddy, shares the kind of extraordinary relationship with Pam and her two girls that he wants for himself. The rooster is what McGrory needs to be – strong and content, devoted to what he has rather than what might be missing. As McGrory learns how to live by living with animals, Buddy changes from nemesis to inspiration in this inherently human story of love, acceptance and change.

Cover Courtesy Crown

Author Brian McGrory's life changed drastically after the death of his beloved dog, Harry, when the greiving pet owner fell in love with Pam, Harry's veterinarian. Pam came with accessories that could not have been more exotic to the city-loving bachelor—a home in suburbia, two young daughters, two dogs, two cats, two rabbits and a portly, snow white, red-crowned-and-wattled “step-rooster” named Buddy. In Buddy: How A Rooster Made Me a Family Man (Crown 2012), McGrory tells the story—as a pet memoir—of the attitude-fueled fowl and how it brought a bachelor and single mother together into a family, and taught them not only how to live with animals but also how to live. 

Buy this book in the CAPPER’s store: Buddy: How a Rooster Made Me a Family Man. 

I’ll never forget the only thought that rattled through my shocked brain the first time I walked down the rough-hewn path that snaked between a couple of weathered cottages and through the sand dunes, then stood on the white sands of Goose Rocks Beach looking out at the calm, crystal blue waters of the Maine coast.

Holy shit.

I’d never seen anything like it. There were no stones, no trash, no crowds, no blaring boom boxes, no Skee-Ball machines, no amusement park, no hot dog carts, no nothing except for powdery sand that squeaked underfoot, acre upon acre of firm, khaki-colored ocean floor revealed by the retreating tide, and a long sandbar that took people out to the wooded environs of Timber Island.

Experience would soon teach me that the only sounds in the early morning were the distant hum of lobster boats traversing the bay to pull up more traps, that the late-afternoon breeze always required a fleece, that you could walk a hundred yards into the absurdly clear—and cold—water at high tide and still be no deeper than your waist. I was, instantly and eternally, in love.

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