This is our flock rooster, Big Bottom. He’s Tabitha’s chicken; she named him the first week he was here. He’s survived all the rooster culls and he’ll be here forever if I have anything to say about it. At over ten pounds he’s a massive, cartoonishly large boy who is nowhere near done growing and is going to end up the size of a small turkey. He has thirteen wives and takes beautiful care of them; yesterday I watched him pick a single blade of grass and take it to a hen. He laid it in front of her, stepped back, and excitedly clucked, looking from her to the grass until she (with an air of resignation) finally swallowed it. He gave a triumphant wing dance and ponderously trotted off to go attend to the next girl.
This is Eight, one of his wives. She’s been laying for a month now and has a couple in the incubator making us the next generation.
Love chickens. LOVE chickens. Somebody needs to make me the next Avedon of the poultry community.
OK, the FIRST Avedon of the poultry community.