As I tried to get the last of the lettuce recently liberated from a local stores' dumpster out of the bag by shaking the bag, Buck decided with alacrity, that something was not right. The balance of power had shifted and the world looked like it needed to be dealt with, and he did not mean maybe.
He acted as though some being from the beyond had left his spiritual throne to test Buck's mettle and manliness.
I often have found that testosterone does this. Threats appear where no threats exist, enemies where there once were allies and the need to handle discomfort with a great show of feathers.
In the background, the hens mill around being as careful of their toes as if they had just spent money on them saying things like "Ohhhhhh.... " and "Weeeeellllll..." They remind me of a pack of Olive Oyl's watching Popeye and Bluto get ready for a scuffle.
Bluto though, is just Plastico in this case, and shifting shapes in the breeze as he disgorges lovely big leaves of Romaine.
Buck is not apppeased.
If he doesn't pick up the pace, the girls will have eaten the best leafy bits leaving him to toss the spines up in the air, catch them and then prowl in a circle, looking pleased with himself.
Maybe that's the point.
Sometimes the Avian American posturing is more than this nascent observer of T-Rex Grandchildren can fathom.
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