We have repeatedly threatened to eat our rooster, but, of course, we have not.  A day or two passes between attacks, and my anger subsides.  Well, no more, my friends. 

It's early Sunday morning.  I could be sleeping.  But no, ever the diligent farmer, I am up, walking into the chicken yard with his food.  It has rained in E. Tennessee for 6 consecutive days, so the pen is a nasty, messy quagmire of funkiness.  I am keeping my eyes on him because he is particularly feisty in the mornings, and when I attempt to walk past (to get to his feeder), he pounces.  Pounce isn't exactly the right word.  Maybe "attack" is better.  I scream (and curse) and throw the food and the bowl at him and land on my backside in the gunk.  My husband is there, of course, laughing, and assures me it's the funniest thing he's ever seen.  Fast forward ten minutes and I'm attempting to feed the Mama Hen and baby chicks.  I am in the yard of the little coop, with the door closed to keep myself safe from HIM, and there HE is, by the door, and I'm stuck.  That's when my husband goes for the camera. 

So that was the start of my Sunday.  How was yours?