Mom likes to keep a flock of laying hens around, mainly for the eggs but also for pest control. They eat bugs, you know. Our last rooster was appropriately named The Big Bad. We don't know what kind of rooster he was, just came with the other chicks. Maybe The Big Bad's foul mood was because he was originally supposed to be a hen. Anyway, he became quite a menace with his stalking and flogging. There's nothing more startling to a dog minding his own business than to suddenly be whapped in the hineybowl by a flurry of feathers.
Sometime last year, The Big Bad disappeared right off the farm. I suspect a chicken hawk, but no one knows for sure. For awhile, we had no crowing in the morning, no sneak attacks upon my nether regions, no archnemesis for me to keep track of. All was peace and quiet.
Then Mom brought home another rooster. This one is a young one, not quite in his prime yet, but I can already see the little wheels turning in his head. He keeps a beady eye on me and the other two dogs, glaring and plotting. He sounds the alarm if we get too close to his girls. He wakes me up at five in the morning. Ugh!
So, as I said, it had to be done. Oh, Ozzie the rooster could have prevented the whole thing by staying in the chicken pen where he belongs. But no, he has to fly over the fence every day and enter MY domain, teasing me with his long, gorgeous, flowing feather duster of a tail, so...
All Mom found was a pile of feathers. That, and a very disgruntled Ozzie sporting a bare bottom.
That's ol' Ozwinkle on the left. See, now his tail is even shorter than the hens (hee hee).
I hope Ozzie remembers this little lesson, and doesn't pick up the same bad habits as The Big Bad once showed. Dogs are to be respected, not used as sparing partners. After all, those spurs could poke someone's eye out.