My little sister is moving away, to Portland, so I’d like to dedicate this post to her.
About this time last year, the sun was shining and the grass was pushing up new blades of green glory through the brown mud. I would take my boys out to the farm to revel in all that is spring. We ran through the orchards and skipped over mud puddles and I decided, quite suddenly, that I needed a chicken.
So, my mother gave me one of her chicks. Visions of fresh organic eggs danced in my head. I took the ball of fluff home and set “her” up nicely in the backyard. Q named “her” peaky, and all my friends thought I was crazy.
Peaky was a rockstar, with fluffy chicken chaps on “her” feet.
“She” was loved by all, chased without mercy and cuddled within an inch of her chicken life.
I did get rather tired of cleaning chicken poop off the porch…but then one morning, Peaky the chicken started to crow. For like, 20 minutes.
My poop problem was solved. There was no way I was going to clean up after a rooster. Roosters are not welcome by subdivisions, and I liked my neighbors, and I wanted eggs, not bombastic crowing.
He was promptly returned to my mother, out at the farm. He spent his time with his harem, crowing and fluffing his chaps.
He had a nice group of ladies…
But the thing is, coyotes and foxes and such prefer local, organic chicken.
Peaky lost his life, fighting for his chickens. A few of the hens survived, and I like to think they owe it to a valiant rooster who spent half his life as a misunderstood chicken.
Rest in Peace Peaky.
Side note: Q asked me why I was getting all these pictures of Peaky, and I told him that Peaky died. He said, “Oohhh! I miss Peaky. Life is not very long is it?”
And it’s not.
Especially when you’re a rooster.