We think “straight run” means the chicks are all female. Out of a dozen, one starts to grow a bigger-than-a-hen comb. We don’t want a rooster. But what are we supposed to do, snap his fuzzy little neck? And then, he starts to crow. His first try sounds like nuts and bolts in a coal scuttle. Now he rivals the ass across the street for Most Obnoxious but Allowed by Township Farm Noise. The neighbors have a rooster, too, but a “specialty” rooster—a dainty little thing whose crow sounds like wind chimes. Our Mr. Beautiful is a big, lusty Barred Rock—black and white-striped splendor! Stiff ruby comb! The wattle drips off his chin like a slice of cherry pie. He grates on my every nerve. I imagine daily how sweet the silence, how quiet it would be, how uninterrupted my thoughts would cock-a-doodle-do.

Bio: Melanie Dunbar