Evening folks!
I have to admit that the stories about the chicken killings made me sad. I know it had/has to be done but if I had to do it, I don't know if I could ever eat any kind of meat.
I had a big ol' white rooster that I called "Fatty" when I was a kid. He followed me everywhere. He even sat on my shoulder.
I will never forget the time the boy down the street hit my arm. Out of no where you could hear Fatty yell, Coook, Coook. The next thing I knew, he flew at that kid until he drove him from the yard. Dear old Fatty and his wife, Henrietta.
She somehow fell off the truck of a group of chickens headed for that big barnyard in the sky. Her beak had been trimmed all the way back. They did that so they could pack more of them into a case and not peck each other eyes out.
They both lived to a ripe old age.
Then there was dear little Blackbird. Ahhh. Memories.
