Our two Austrolorp roosters, who are pitch black but with the usual bright red wattle and comb, have taken to sitting on a long thin branch of the maple tree adjacent to their run. They look like a couple of cartoon vultures waiting for a victim. I kind of feel badly for them. The Dorking rules the roost, getting laid whenever he wants, and getting laryngitis defending his right to do so. But as awesome as the Dorking looks, the Austrolorps, with their iridecent black feathers, sure look like the cool kids. If they were in a movie, they’d be dressed for Bergman or (ha!) Rob Zombie, when everyone else was in a Tom Cruise sports flic. And sex? Yeah, no. The quarterback gets the chicks, the goth guys, not so much.
By the by, I just found out last night that my father used to keep chickens. I guess he had a couple of hundred Columbia Rocks for egg sales. I don’t feel so weird now, carrying around a hen under my arm and trying to make friends.
Oh, wait . . .