I Wish My Husband Loved Me Like He Loves the Rooster

I already knew cockfighting happened in places like Mexico, India, and parts of Southeast Asia. And honestly, as someone who once kept parrots as pets, the idea of birds killing each other made me uneasy. But on my first trip to the Philippines in 2018, there was something culturally fascinating that I couldn’t ignore.

I was staying in Panglao, Bohol, and within the first week, I began noticing a pattern: the roosters crowing at dawn, tied to trees or strutting through backyards, and the buzz of activity every Saturday in the same village. These weren’t just noisy pets—they were gladiators in training.

Driven by a journalist’s curiosity, I decided to visit a full-scale cockpit arena in Baclayon one Saturday in November. The place was hard to miss—hundreds of scooters parked outside, the unmistakable sound of shouting coming from a humble wooden dome. Entry was free, but the locals were suspicious of me, the obvious foreigner. I knew what they were thinking: Another Westerner judging us.

Inside, the air was thick with testosterone, feathers, and dust. The arena was packed—nearly all men, except for three women I spotted. I managed to place two GoPros discreetly near the ring.

Before the main events, there was a warm-up area where men sat in two facing rows, each cradling a rooster. Occasionally, they'd lean forward and let the birds peck at each other—a subtle prelude to violence. Meanwhile, others were busy strapping razor-sharp blades to the roosters' legs. The blades are meant to ensure quick, decisive fights.

When the announcer took the mic, the energy shifted. He hyped up the crowd, who began placing frantic bets, shouting over each other in excitement. The roosters were then released. Sometimes the fights ended in seconds—a single slash to the throat. Sometimes, the birds hesitated, and their owners would toss them into the air to force a mid-air collision. That part, especially, made me sick to my stomach. The brutality wasn’t masked—it was the point.

Money changed hands fast. Winners celebrated. Losers sulked. And always, the bloodied rooster was dragged off the sandy arena floor.

Behind the scenes, I saw something that made the whole experience even more surreal: a young woman, no older than twenty, stitching up a rooster’s leg. It had won its match but suffered deep gashes. She told me she’d been helping her father with post-fight care since she was 14. Her job was to patch up the bird, treat it with antibiotics and vitamins, and nurse it back into fighting shape—usually over the course of a year.

Watching her stitch into raw, feathered flesh was... disturbing. The rooster didn’t even flinch, just blinked as she worked like a field medic.

Not far from her was the fate of the losers. A man dipped them in boiling water, plucked the feathers, and prepped them for barbecue. Apparently, it’s common practice to eat the defeated roosters—even though they’re pumped with steroids, antibiotics, and GMO feed. Nothing goes to waste.

Near the entrance, two women were selling cold drinks and snacks. I asked them how they felt about all this. One of them, with a shrug, said, “It’s common. Fathers come here and lose their kids’ college funds in one go.” The other laughed, then cut in with a line I’ll never forget:

“If my husband loved me just 50% as much as he loves that fucking rooster, I’d be happy.”

They both burst out laughing, but her words stuck with me. Because it’s true. These men pamper their roosters like beloved sons—feeding them by hand, grooming them, training them for months. You could call it love, in a twisted way.

The Golden Rooster

There’s a beach in Panglao that I love. It’s not clean. There are no beach bars, no paved walkways, no lounge chairs—and no tourists. It’s a public beach, mostly used by locals. I’ve been coming here to swim and snorkel among the coral reefs since 2018. Over time, I got to know a family who lived near the shore. I’d often leave my phone and keys with the lady of the house while I swam, and afterward I’d buy a cold bottle of water from their tiny sari-sari shop.

The family was ordinary in the best way—some were fishermen, their boats pulled up right to the edge of the water, and others were tricycle drivers, proudly showing off their brightly pimped rides. We got to know each other over the years.

In 2020, I noticed an older man sitting behind the main house, a rooster nestled gently in his lap. He wasn’t just holding it—he was talking to it, like passing on quiet wisdom. I was nearby, awkwardly dabbing vinegar on my skin to soothe the stings after a swim through what felt like a soup of pink jellyfish. The vinegar was something I’d asked the lady for—it worked better than any cream.

The old man had seen me a few times before, and this time he struck up a conversation. We talked about the tides and swimming, and he’d seen me earlier giving away small plastic toy animals—part of a little project my daughter had entrusted me with—to some of the local kids. That might have helped break the ice.

I asked if I could touch the rooster. It was just 10 months old, and he was training it to become his next champion. The bird was hesitant at first, but I scratched gently behind its head and along the edge of its beak. Slowly, its eyes closed in contentment.

His name was Narisco—gray-haired, smiling, calm. He showed me how he trained the rooster every morning. He’d place it on the ground, holding just the tail, letting it run in place and scratch at the dirt. He even showed me a red, soft-headed punching stick that he used to train its reflexes and attack moves.

Then, casually, Narisco pointed to three nearby houses. “My last champion won those,” he said.

I was stunned. Speechless, actually. That kind of money from betting? It hit me then—this wasn’t just a pastime; it was a livelihood. I’d seen it on TV before, in local bars: nationwide cockfighting broadcasts with crowds of men shouting, waving 1,000-peso bills. No wonder it was so popular, especially in rural areas. And no wonder roosters were tied up in the most unexpected corners of cities and villages alike.

I thanked Narisco for being so open about something that many Europeans, like myself, find controversial. But he spoke with pride, and with care—for the bird, for the tradition, for the life it had helped build.

A few years later, after the pandemic, I heard he’d suffered a stroke. In 2024, Narisco passed away.

I had taken a portrait of him, one of the few decent photographs of him that existed. I gave it to his children and grandchildren. They used that image at his wake. It meant a lot to me—but I think it meant even more to them.