The story of a five year plan, an impulse buy, and two city folks lost (then found) in the country.
Tuesday, September 18, 2012
Pierre: A Fancy Rooster
meaning to, I acquired a very fancy rooster. He ended up in a box of
chicks from the feed store this spring and was supposed to be a little
female easter egger - a kind of mutt chicken that lay pink and green
eggs. Turns out, the chicken people at the feed store accidentally
mixed the high dollar birds in with those that cost $2.50 a pop, and I
got myself a purebred Ameracauna. Oopsie.
was skeptical about this one from the get-go and, sure enough,
eventually "she" sprouted wispy tail feathers, a large comb, and the
tell-tale snooty, superior attitude that can only mean one thing in the
chicken world: rooster. We are convinced that this guy speaks with a
thick French accent, and, when none of us are looking, dons a beret and
smokes a skinny cigarette while leaning against the doorway of the hen
house. He is an expert lady chaser and, although fairly petite, has
quite a presence in the barnyard. Oh, mon dieu.
This is Monster. She is the only hen who can outrun Pierre. You go girl.
The neighbors (self-proclaimed chicken "experts") have come over to
tell us that Pierre is worth a lot of money. I have a $50 rooster on my
hands, people! They gently encouraged me to cage him and get him into
some sort of a Pierre breeding program, the idea of which is pretty
hilarious to me. Pierre cost me $2.50 and, although my neighbors
believe his carefully bred offspring could make me rich, I prefer to
treat him like the scrappy, feed-store chicken that he is - happily
roaming the property for bugs, crowing atop the round bale, and devoting
at least three hours each day to skillfully chasing his women. To
me, a rooster is a rooster, even one who has proven himself as the
Napoleon of the chicken world. And it's a bonus to always hear Edith
Piaf play in my head when our little Frenchman prances by. He's so