This week, I decided that the two young Polish roosters had to go. I really can’t have three roosters. Cloud, my Americana rooster is a gentleman and protects his hens. I didn’t feel good about sending him to the stewpot, so the young ones had to go. I waited till evening, then boxed them up to take to my friend who eats them. (I would have no problem killing and eating my chickens except that plucking a chicken is hard, smelly work. My friend’s husband, apparently doesn’t mind.)
But as I put them in the box, I couldn’t help but notice their gorgeous, glossy feathers and entrancing topknots. Especially Dorie One, as my grandson named the now certainly rooster, whose head was laced with gold and red feathers.
In the middle of the night I couldn’t stand it. I got up and put him back with the hens. For the time being, I have two roosters. We’ll have to see how it goes.
Meanwhile, the silkies have started to lay their tiny eggs.
4 thoughts on “A bad farmer”
I am so relieved that you resisted your murderous urge.
But now what!?
Keep living in the now and do what comes next.
I miss you when I read your blog. I am reminded of things we alone share.
Of course the roosters have to go sometime, but not now.
I just sit back and enjoy the reprieve.
why I cherish their added minutes, or days, I could not tell you, but I do.
Good thoughts–okay, then.