I am sitting here at this ungodly hour because of my rooster. Well, technically he is a cockerel but I don't like to say that in mixed, polite company because well . . . look at at the word will ya? Unless you speak farm-girl, you might think I was saying something about his doo-dad. But Since everyone, knows what a rooster is, this is what I am sticking with. Anyway, I now have to save my cool "Little Women-esqe" names for my next four hens, because we are down to one rooster and one hen. We have re-named them Lady Gaga and Jay-Z. The first because it just fit her and her frizzle-ness, the latter because he's black and I wanted to keep going with the popular singer theme and to be honest with you, I don't know of many of the popular black artists, so my choices were limited. Sue me. Wait. Don't sue me if you are either of these people in real life. I will change them if it offends you and your famousness.
So I got to thinking about how I had thought I was so smart "sexing" these chickens at the little backyard homestead that I received them from. I thought I had learned everything I needed to know about chicken sexing from Mike Rowe. How hard could it be?
Well, it is. Hard that is. Although at the time I made it look easy, I realize now that all I was doing was looking a little too close at a chicks poop chute.
And what got me thinking about my habit of playing god, was my first read of the day from my friend over at the Superfantaboulous Blog, which I read every chance I get. Something she said struck a note in me: " . . .I was forced to come to the realization that I don't have to completely, continuously control the universe with my iron fist of in-human stubbornness."
That about says it all. I will suffer through my cockerel/rooster every morning this summer at around 5:23 am. Me, in my martyrdom will not even think about taping his little beak shut when he does his thing. Then, next spring or whenever, I will have some baby chicks (maybe, still thinking about that).