A recap: two months ago I bought a rooster for my nine hens. Unfortunately, two of the hens turned out to be roosters and they tried to kill the little cock when I tried to put him in with them.
I tried the old trick of waiting until dark and putting him in the coop with the sleeping chickens, but in the morning he was running around peeping for his life. I finally brought him in my studio where he showed a preference for apples and pecking at paint brushes.
Someone online suggested the name Peckasso and a muse was born. Every day for a couple weeks he jumped up on my lap and watched me paint, often pecking at the paint. He even contributed to this effort:
Which has a decidedly peckinpaw feel to it, don't you think? But, by week four the novelty wore off, but the chicken shit did not. My cleaning lady made the wringing-of-the-neck sign with her hands. Or, perhaps it was my neck she was symbolically wringing. At any rate, the writing was on the wall: I had to find a home for this young rooster, so we can both get on with our lives. So I talked my neighbor Tom into getting a chicken coop with enough room to grow. The idea being that we would wait for Peckasso to mature then give him a brood of hens to enjoy. We unloaded the new coop last Saturday:
Betsy, (above, left) had one more pronouncement: Peckasso, is a Peckassa.
"All that, AND nothing to crow about?"
—BBB
