Ding Dong The Cluck is Gone
Darth Cluck, as Christian has been calling him, croaked his last this morning. Christian had just set down the freshly-filled water bucket, when the rooster went for his face. Christian managed to block him with his hand, but still got a cut across his index finger.
He promptly marched inside (after doing whatever else he needed to do) and declared that that was the last straw.
Mom and Dad briefly discussed whether or not we really wanted the meat before asking Grandfather to dispose of him. Dad didn't want the meat, so Grandfather went out and peppered Darth Cluck with birdshot.
He was a beautiful bird on the outside, but his attitude was horrid on the inside.
I won't get to make a chicken pot pie out of him, but I'm positive it would have tasted amazing.
It's nice not having to watch my back anymore when I go down to put them up for the night.
Although it was an eggcellent (pun intended) exercise of reflexes and predicting, it was getting rather rough, and it was time for him to stop scarring us (he gave Gabe one, and I have a faint one from the time before last he spurred me, and I'm positive my foot is going to have one).
Also, I can stop singing Do You Hear the People Sing? while valiantly making sure there are several hens between Darth Cluck and my boots.