The Rooster – He ain't gonna die

Not by my hand, anyway. Yes, it turns out that I don't have seven hens. I have six hens. That seventh chicken, over the past weeks, started getting this red crown down the center of its head, bossing the other chickens around, and making these remedial cock-a-doodle-do-ing sounds. Then Sunday, it happened. Full on early morning wake the hell up crowing. This is the greatest fear of anyone raising chickens in a compact suburban neighborhood.

I shoved it in a bag and lit out up north to a friend's house. He lives in the country and has plenty of room for it to roam, thought I. But even better, I find out, he lived near a chicken farm. A drive by chicken tossing followed and all the problems were solved.

Well, all the chicken problems. It's been about the most wet late spring and early summer I can remember. The garden is drowning. It rained yesterday for just a little bit and the water pooled on my yard. I think it is all this rain that made my broccoli go to seed before it got bigger than a baseball. And my tomato plants look very sickly. The peppers aren't putting on any height to speak of either. But the cucumbers are going nuts.

Man cannot live on cucumbers alone.

Until next time.