See the fine specimen of chicken at the left of the picture? Her name is Sago. She is the chicken I chose from the random blur of cute fluffiness that assailed my mothering instincts at the markets two weeks ago.
My family have been convinced that she is a rooster. I chose her because she was large and healthy looking, and by far the fluffiest (after all, is that not the most important feature of a chook?)
Recent times have given pause for doubt. Here is Pecan. I would have it that Pecan was practicing to crow. Poor miss 13, who chose Pecan and is rather attached to, ah, him, won’t hear of it. You be the judge –
Almond, who is by far the friendliest, most loyal follower, and will always come when called is looking much like Pecan.
In a previous post, Missy the chick whisperer, and Jillian, another experience chicken raiser, both shared ideas on how to determine whether my sweet balls of fluff are boys or girls, and the wilder among my readers have suggest this could be a betting matter 😉
Friends, I am not sure of the legal implications of turning my blog into an online den of iniquity, but if you happen to fancy yourself as the person who can eliviate my chicken anxiety as to whether my feathered friends are destined for the pot or not, by all means cast your bets, um, opinions!
Just as an aside, have you ever tried to photograph chicks? They follow you. You cannot get away from them: this makes it very challenging to achieve anything but the tops of their heads, not to mention the danger of standing on one! Trying to run away and take a picture results in stressed looks of unbelief on the faces of your chickens. Putting them on the trampoline when we were all exhausted finally did the trick.