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Our quite impressive australorp rooster.
When our neighbor started out our flock in Indiana by giving us three chicks, who all turned out to be roosters, we picked the little guy on the bottom of the pecking order and butchered the other two. That little guy has filled out nicely and is now a hulking, protective king of the farm. Or so he thinks.

Usually, he’s pretty docile when it comes to being a rooster. We’ve had some crazy ones in the past who’d go out of their way to pick a fight, but this guy tried a couple of times, learned his lesson and quit it. Until spring arrived.

He doesn’t mess with Jack or me–he knows better–but he will go after the girls if he gets a chance. It’s a bit intimidating for them to run out the back door and find the flock pecking and scratching in the garden, standing between them and the swings. Most of the time the girls wield a stick or shovel to keep the rooster at bay, but Kate got a bit too close and came in with a ribbon of blood running down her forearm and a chunk of her skin missing. Sure enough, the rooster was the perpetrator.

Evelyn and Claire watching out for Kate.

Though I understand the fear the rooster invokes, I also love how the girls run to each others’ aid. “Save me, sisters!” and they’re there in an instant.

That rooster better watch out who he picks on.

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True stories of raising children, remodeling, braving the elements and plotting out life, all while living on a humble acreage in central Indiana.

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