We are by far the wimpiest pseudo-farmers on the planet.  After another day of rooster attacks, my husband woke early,  took the handgun from the lockbox that was covered in an inch of dust, and put an end to our problem.  It was over quickly, at least for the rooster.  Emotion inside the house, though, still runs high.  Gabriel (8) was absolutely hysterical.  Joseph smiled.  The hens were frantic. And I have mixed feelings all around. 

He served his purpose.  He did a  fabulous job of taking care of "his girls."  He lived a good life.  He was well-fed and lived like a king.  But he just couldn't help himself when little Benjamin was around.  It happened again yesterday.  Ben was swinging, and the rooster was in the front of the house.  My parents had stopped by, and my father was sitting in a chair near the swingset, watching Ben.  From out of nowhere, the rooster runs around the house, straight to the swing and begins to jump at Ben.  I heard him screaming from inside the house.  My Dad began to kick him away, but he just kept coming.  It took several blows with a big stick to run the rooster away.  That sealed his fate, I think.  We kept hoping he would magically transform into a kinder, gentler rooster, but it just didn't happen.  

Oh, and by the way,  we couldn't eat him.  We were too sad.  So we just had a quiet burial.  Joe said, "What happens at the end of the world, if we have to kill something to survive.  We'll just starve  to death."   I honestly hope not.  I think at some point my survival instinct (and maternal) would kick in.