I got a rotator cuff injury this week from patting myself on the back. Self congratulation took place a little too soon. Buck was not a tamer, calmer, happier more pacifist chicken, he had only been suffering from seasonal affective disorder. He had asked himself "Oh, what's the point?" He was put off by the cold, the frostbite on his formerly handsome red comb, turning it black and scaly in places. His feet hurt. He had ingrown toenail on one foot. Everything just seemed like too damned much trouble. So he caved in, and allowed himself to be picked up, patted and generally human-handled more than in the early days.
I could be out shoveling, or moving objects around in the yard, or going to the car with a bag in my hand, and Buck would stand around on one foot, casting a disinterested eye on the proceedings, hardly bothering to molest nearby hens.
I thought he had gotten used to the idea that nobody was going to give him the boot, or boil him around here and he could relax and just be a happy chicken.
Nope.
We've had a few truly warm days now, and every time I look out in the yard, he's circling some hen. I did a few dump runs today, and every time I left the van unattended, he had gotten in and roosted there with some of his girls and grumbled and complained when asked [nicely] to vacate.
He rushes me if he sees me with something in my hand and the girls come tearing after him like a cloud. They are looking for food. He is looking for more opportunity to point out to all life forms, particularly resident gyno-Americans, who's boss.
The season of walking backwards has returned.
I could be out shoveling, or moving objects around in the yard, or going to the car with a bag in my hand, and Buck would stand around on one foot, casting a disinterested eye on the proceedings, hardly bothering to molest nearby hens.
I thought he had gotten used to the idea that nobody was going to give him the boot, or boil him around here and he could relax and just be a happy chicken.
Nope.
We've had a few truly warm days now, and every time I look out in the yard, he's circling some hen. I did a few dump runs today, and every time I left the van unattended, he had gotten in and roosted there with some of his girls and grumbled and complained when asked [nicely] to vacate.
He rushes me if he sees me with something in my hand and the girls come tearing after him like a cloud. They are looking for food. He is looking for more opportunity to point out to all life forms, particularly resident gyno-Americans, who's boss.
The season of walking backwards has returned.
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Glad to hear from you, but criticisms will be ignored. It's the beauty of the web. I will answer all friendly remarks. Buck handles the rest.