We have a bunch of hens in our backyard. One of my favorites is a gangly Rhode Island Red named Sasquatch. Actually, she was named Chocolate, but she was so big and her feet were so huge that we started calling her Sasquatch.
Seriously, this bird looked like a velociraptor. Huge feet, long neck, gangly walk. It was charming. The funniest thing was that she was a total push-over. The other birds would steal her food and chase her away from the water. She’s only a few months old, so she’s still immature and shy. We figured she’d find her voice soon enough.
Well, she found her voice alright. This morning at the crack of dawn, she started cock-a-doodle-doo-ing. Like a rooster. Like the rooster she is. Sasquatch is a boy. We suspected something was up. But the farmer we got her from said she was a girl. Was he trustworthy? I don’t know. He had a lot of chickens. My husband even sexed her. “Sexed her” as in examined her gender not “sexed her” as in, well, you know….. Anyway, my husband is a doctor at the VA and he said she’s a girl. Who’s gonna arugue with a government doctor? (Lesson: Don’t go to the VA for chicken-sexing services.)
So, I loved ‘Squatch when I thought she was the world’s ugliest hen. Now that she’s just another immature rooster, I don’t know what to think. First of all, he/she has to go. No roosters allowed in the city. (Thanks, Jake.) By the time you read this, we will have “found her a nice farm to live on for the rest of her life”. Either literally or figuratively. Maybe we’ll take her back to the farmer who sold her to us. Maybe we’ll slow-roast her at 375 with a little butter, garlic, and rosemary up under her skin and dilled new potatoes fresh from the garden. Not that I’ve really thought about it.