Last night we came home from a party and the older rooster was in the middle of the yard, head bent, sleeping. I assumed that he hadn't made it back to the barn because he poorly judged the amount of light left to get back and decided just to sleep in the yard. Art picked him up and carried him the barn, setting him on top of his usual roost. It was at the point that Art discovered two things that told him that something was really, really wrong with the rooster:
1) When Art lifted him to the roost, the rooster pooped on him but instead of it smelling like regular chicken poop (which is bad enough) it smelled like death coming out of his backside.
2) When Art placed him on the roost, the rooster wobbled and promptly fell over (he actually fell about four feet, which is kind of funny but still very sad).
Art came in and told me to expect the rooster to be dead tomorrow; he was.
I swear the hens were celebrating this morning at finally being free of the continual (and often violent) sexual assault wraught by the rooster several times a day (until the other rooster reaches maturity...)
Well, on the bright side we no longer have to worry about PETA accusing us of cock fighting.
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