At about nine weeks, I began to have some doubts about two of my new baby girls.
One of the Buff Orpingtons and one of the Rhode Island Reds were looking different than the other females. The cones on their heads were getting taller and redder, and they were developing red goattees below their chins. Yet, I had hope that maybe I was reading the signs wrong. Maybe they’d be manly ladies.
Then the crow came.
Of course, it wasn’t much of a crow. It was like a rooster hitting puberty. His voice cracked during his attempt to be loud and obnoxious.
It was official, two of my supposed she’s were now he’s. Trouble is, I don’t want any he’s. All I want are hens.
Thus, I have a dilemma. I’m not a fan of roosters fertilizing my precious girls, and Mr. Rhode Island Rooster is already developing a hefty attitude. He might think he’s gonna rule the roost, but I have news for him: try and peck me again and you’ll be simmering in a stew.