It’s come to this
This goofy scrotum-faced potted-palm bastard has decided I MUST DIE. Testosterone has caught up with Albert.
When the pekins briefly went through that phase, it was like being hit on the back of the leg with a party balloon, but this dude is different. He’s at least three times their weight, with wicked evil spurs. A reminder that roosters fighting to the death is a sport.
At his most pissed, he jumps up and comes down with those spurs, and that emeffer hurts. He got me in the shin twice yesterday and drew blood.
At first I thought non-violence was the way to go. If I acted nonchalant, he didn’t escalate. For a while.
Then I tried lifting him on the toe of my boot and boosting him into the air. It’s not a kick because my foot doesn’t contact him hard. It’s a stimulating toss. That may have shook him a little, but he still tried to get a couple of pecks in later.
Thank goodness he’s so blind, he misses half the time.
All I can do is wear my wellies around him and hope he gets over it like the others did.
I know what you’re thinking, but I just couldn’t. I’ve been coddling this silly peckerhead since he was an egg. He’s still my boy.
August 17, 2020 — 7:41 pm
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