sick as a third rooster
When I feel sick, I like making my home feel homier. I read under blankets, but only after something is in the oven, filling the house with it’s warm aromatherapudic scent. So I baked my father’s apple cake and then drove to Wayside for Dayquil. (I am certain this combination will heal me.) In the meantime, I am swilling lemon tea and watching bad movies with the dogs. The farm has a definite activity deficit, but a strong surplus in apple baked goods.
In more interesting and sexy news. I found out two of my pullets…aren’t. Two of the Ameraucana “hens” are actually growing up into roosters. Not good. I found this out yesterday morning when I witnessed one said rooster trying to have sex with my duck. The duck's name is Henry.
Now, this farm is a hate-free zone and if my poultry wants to dabble in mild youthful sexual exploits – that’s their business. But three roosters means fights, blood, and eventually… two dead roosters*. I learned this last year and have no interest in repeating the experiment.
I might keep one. The young birds and older gals are two separate corporations right now. The young gals could use a stud to watch over them while Rufus is down the creek with his concubines. But the other has to go. If anyone around here wants a free alarm clock, come pick him up.
*Yes, I understand many small flocks have more than one male, but it’s well understood those males are more tense, aggressive, and annoying when they are always on alert. No thanks.