There’s a dead rooster hanging from my front porch.
Not exactly an inspirational quote, but the matter-of-factness of this morning doesn’t leave me feeling terribly inspired. Reflective maybe. Sad. Definitely.
Moose was the rooster we took a chance on. His father, Blue, was our very first rooster. The cuddly, cooing little buddle of blue ameracauna lured us in with his good looks and charming personality. Until we went away for a couple of weeks and came back to a rooster who had thoroughly freaked out our house sitter and turned into a tiny tyrant capable of making the back of your knees ring from frequent, repeated jump kicks.
I spent months trying to reform the bastard until he started harassing the hens as severely as he had been attacking us. Then it was game over. Off with his head.