So Long, Strangey

Friday evening, Phil and I made a list of "must dos" around the farm. It was 66 line items long, ranging from the simple (stain exterior of beehives) to the time-consuming (erect metal building).

Happily, Phil accomplished three of those tasks in one day. He fixed the sprayer, which we have not had fully functional since we bought it. He finished the chicken pen.

He made runners, so the pen will pull easily, and put hooks into the runners, so he can easily pull the pen.

As you can see, he set nice roosting sticks inside, and the structural members he used for framing are quite snappy.

(At the expense of calling them "dumb clucks," Phil went out after dark to see how the chickens liked their new home. He found them all huddled outside, around the guineas, on the back of the pen, the side their door had been before their other hut collapsed. He moved them around to the door, by twos and threes, laughing at how unobservant and innocent those ladies are.)

I also had Phil kill Strangey the rooster. He had abandoned his ladies in the pen and strutted around the farm. I was concerned for the eyes of my boys, and since a man was killed by a cock-fighting rooster recently, I insisted we put an end to the threat. A happy move, for the spurs on Strangey's legs were a solid inch long, hard as nails.

Like the grizzly bear that was shot five times by Lewis and Clark before finally dying, Strangey died hard. Shot in the left breast, and then the left leg, he finally slowed enough for Phil to catch him and cut his throat. Two bullet holes did leave a shortage of useable meat, but I left Strangey's carcass simmering for tenderizing. Hours later, I went out to check on the bird and realized that the pot had boiled dry, and the half of Strangey NOT punctured with bullet holes had burnt to the bottom of the pan.

The incredibly tender meat didn't really appeal to the boys, who nibbled the white meat and left the dark. The pigs will be happy for Strangey's thighs, I suppose.

After the bird was dead, I had my first opportunity to pluck a chicken. At first I figured I would skin him, feathers and all, but his connective tissues proved stronger than my hands (or maybe I just didn't know what I was doing). I took a handful of his beautiful downy grey feathers around his stomach and was amazed to see them come away easily in my hand.

Such a wonderful tactile sensation: soft, warm. I put them in Ziplocs because I couldn't bear to leave them. Usually the feathers are wet from scalding, but this was dry plucking. His beautiful breast feathers came away, too, downy on the bottom and bronze and white on the top. I don't often wish that hats were in style, but the realization that such finery could adorn a hat: that was a pleasant thought.

His neck feathers refused to come off, and I finally did skin his neck. (I had never noticed how incredibly long his neck was, but thought perhaps his name should have been "Giraffe," because it felt like he had about five more vertebras than the girls.)

For the truly curious, I will say that I believe I found his impregnating parts, inside his body, two egg yolk sized white balls. For his size, they seemed a bit extreme, but I suppose roosters have a challenging job to do, managing many hens.

And finally, his tail. Gorgeous feathers connected to an impossibly small, quarter-sized piece of flesh.