This week Trudi and I agreed that the smallest chook, the one with the attitude, was looking a bit rooster-y. She was mounting and being bossy, and then one morning she crowed.
This morning I took him back to the breeder. She opened the lid of the box, glanced in for a picosecond, then said Oh Yep Definitely A Rooster. I think that means that we are useless first-time chicken owners, who let this whole is-she-a-rooster thing go on for far too long. Well she didn't say that, but that's how I read the situation. So she took him back, and gave us a new hen, who is now being pecked and shouted at by the three old hands.
The rooster will either stay with the breeder (he is awfully pretty), or go to one of those travelling children's farms, where he will be patted mercilessly. Could have been worse. "Worse" is being dinner for a zoo inmate.
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