I have a habit of adopting chickens from other farms.
This spring, I adopted two from the Big Farm. They were the only two that survived out of 50 incubated eggs.
I named them Vim & Vigor.
Since I named them, I got to keep them, since nobody could eat them after they had names.
(This was my agenda all along you know).
We weren't really shopping for a rooster, but Vigor was, well, a cockerel, and we couldn't leave him and just take Vim, so they both came to live with our flock.
I've been trying to keep Vigor from growing up into an obnoxious, hormone-riddled teenager that would pick fights with me whenever I crossed their yard.
So far, it's working. Threats of ending up in the stew pot seem to be taken seriously.
I was starting to think I was a little too successful, that our Vigor would never really, ahem, "grow up," but last weekend he put my mind at ease.
He croaked out two "Cock-a-doodle's" (he cut off the last "doo's") and I've since seen him "gettin' friendly" with the hens.
I haven't heard him crow since and frankly, that's just fine with me.
I like to sleep in a bit on the weekends, don't ya know.
And that's the end of my rooster tale.