And in chicken news, it appears to be more and more obvious that Miss Catniss is a rooster.
Check out that crazy bird.
The meanest rooster I ever knew was a red rooster named Krushchev (you'll understand this if you're old enough to remember a certain Soviet leader) who terrorized the children of the neighborhood when I was growing up. That rooster would come at you, wanting to peck and make you bleed. It was the memory of Krushchev that prevented me from getting chickens for years and years. I had no idea that roosters can be sweet until we had Elvis.
Hopefully, he will be sweet. Not as sweet as Elvis because that's impossible but sweet, still. I just can't abide the thought of a mean rooster around my grandchildren although a mean rooster can be a solid protector of his hens but I'll tell you this- if he goes after Elvis's hens, there's going to be some feathers flying because Elvis is going to take the bird to school.
When I went out to take his picture this morning he made it difficult by jumping up and trying to bite the camera. Which is because I always take them grapes, but it's a little frightening.
Oh boy. Hormones. Whether in humans or chickens they are powerful things.
I've got a day's worth of stuff to do in the next two hours before the boys get here so I better get busy and quit ruminating over chickens and their sex, chickens and their gender, the possibility of chicken and dumplings, and memories of a terrorizing red rooster from my childhood.
But let me add- I remember when Kruschev had his head cut off and yes, it's true. Chickens do run around after their heads are separated from their bodies. And Mrs. Ferger, Kruschev's owner, had to stew that bird for an entire day to make him fit to eat.
Well, that's probably more than you needed to know this morning.
P.S. I think I shall rename Catniss. From henceforth, perhaps he shall be called Kohl Drogo after this guy in Game of Thrones. Drogo for short. Yeah. I like it.