I am now going to reveal some things about my secret, at-home sense of fashion and my general lack of sanity.
One Christmas, my hubby’s grandmother gave me a blue plaid, flannel nightie, in the stylish granny cut, including eyelet ruffle.
During the night, this particular nightie gets all wrapped around me and itches a little to boot. Instead, I throw it on to cover a very respectable portion of my body. After adding a pair of black rubber knee high barn boots, I am ready to let the rabbits and chickens loose for the day.
We accidentally ended up with a rooster. Allegedly, this is rare when you buy day-old chicks at the seed and feed. Oh, we made our share of growing cock jokes and became quite fond of him.
However, since we have just the right amount of chickens, I had no desire to let him go after “the girls” and fertilize any eggs.
No chicken sex.
He lived in his own covered run. While the hens were inside laying in the morning, he got full run of the property. At noon, he went in, they free ranged.
One morning, just before dawn, he welcomed the day, signally he was ready to get out and play. I put on my stylish attire and headed outside, still rubbing the sleep from my eyes. Just as I let him out, a swift breeze made my fashionable nightie billow. Well, chickens have very poor vision, and he was sure that he was under attack.
He attacked back, sending me cursing and gullumping back to the house in my noisy barn boots. After every five strides, the bugger came at me talons first. Again and again he came at me.
Slam!
I leaned with my back against the front door panting. What fresh Hell was this? After I caught my breath, I looked up to see my loving husband. He was just about convulsing trying to keep the laughter back as he questioned my well being. He figured out I was okay, when I spouted a string of curses so thick that a sailor would have blushed.
I changed into my gardening grubbies and set about my day. After a bit, I went to check the mail. The rooster seemed fine, his normal calm self. But after I walked past him, I noticed he was strutting behind me. F*&#!
At the mailbox, he let me have it. Again, I sprinted and cursed. Was I glad my then 5 yr. old was at day camp!
I kept one of those foamy pool noodles with me for the rest of the day in self defense.
Now what? He can’t stay. What about my son? I have no desire to butcher the rooster myself…not that anyone in my family could have eaten him, after loving him so.
Maybe, I could cry my way to the slaughter house? Nope. “We only take large batches.” The usually so helpful extension agent actually suggested taking him for a ride and setting him free! I’m not kidding.
Hm…don’t know anyone else who keeps chickens. I called my best friend, who works at a local classifieds magazine. After she spit her coffee all over her key board and shared my story with her coworkers, they all put their heads together trying to come up with a plan.
By 5 pm, I had decided to put the young rooster on Craig’s List. At 9 am the following morning, a local beef farmer came for my old friend, now arch enemy. Oh yeah, he and his son laughed like hell, too.
Now, the rooster lives on a nice farm, where his whole job is to increase the backyard flock.
Keeping chickens tip #1. If you don’t want to increase your flock or have chicken dinner, get rid of the males….before they hit adolescence.
Recession Depression Therapy 
My grandmother used to tell me a story, which is now one of my 4-year-old’s favorite bedtime tales, about how her family kept over 200 chickens during the depression. She was probably about 6 or 7 years old herself at the time, and one of her daily chores was to help feed them and collect the eggs. Unfortunately, there was one rooster among them, Freshie, who really had it out for her. He constantly chased her around and tried to peck out her eyes That is, until the fateful day when her mother made what she always insisted was “the best Sunday chicken dinner” she ever ate. Yup, you guessed it…the main course was roasted Freshie. :o)
Ah roosters…. They are either the sweetest things, or a pain in the arse. At least he is in a happy place now, and you don’t have to worry about any more morning boxing matches.
Just another adventure on the little homestead. Damn rooster.
Someday I’ll tell you why we ate smugly ate Ram burgers when I was a kid.
i am crying (with laughter)! excellent post, you paint quite the picture.