Buster is/was the rooster around here.
In the country, animals are not necessarily pets. Buster had become mean. This morning he went after Olivia- his spurs (things poking out of his legs about an inch) were quite the weapon, and he attacked when you are not looking. I guess I don't care that much about fertilized eggs, anyways.
So when Ron came home from work, I told him to shoot Buster.
Mission accomplished. Sorry if this hurts anyone's feelings.
Now the kids can do chicken chores again.
5 comments:
get 'im good, i say.
I hope you had a funeral.
;)
do you get to eat him?
~ann b.
I love this. Tell 'em like it is.
Doesn't it feel good to be done with the mean guy? Each one of ours got mean (after the one bigger than it was butchered) last year, until we were left with only three Bantam roosters. (Still a lot, I know.) One is slowly sidling his way to the oven pretty soon. I'm almost certain.
He's been bullying the boys when they're outside.
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