I'm drinking in the advice here. I've only done this once but I hope to have to do it repeatedly and having a system in mind can only be helpful.
I had no trouble deciding that my packing peanuts, "The Red Boys" had to go. There were, after all, an impossible 5 of them and I had not planned on any roosters at all in a flock that was supposed to be only 4-6.
It was made easier by the fact that while Vinnie was a rather personable fellow, bold and curious, I was completely unable to tell Parm, Fry, Fric, and Stew apart.
And even easier by the fact that, though I love black, white, and black and white chickens, and can appreciate the charms of the buffs, I must admit -- with apologies to those who adore their RIRs, New Hampshires, etc. -- that I loathe red chickens. There is simply something about them that I find utterly unappealing.
Then, a few days after the Red Boys were encamped in the freezer my beautiful Light Brahma, whose appearance had aroused some suspicion but whose behavior had been entirely un-rooster-like under Vinnie's dominance, flared his hackles at something that had startled the flock and had his name changed from Rosemary to Marion.
Before I had time to figure out when my job schedule and the weather would permit another butchering day, Marion started to crow. His voice was beautiful -- deep, resonant, and tuneful -- and I had always had the absurd desire to own the world's most useless creature, a crowing rooster.
With DH and the neighbors agreeable, Marion stayed and lived up to the laid-back reputation of Brahma roosters.
I am under no illusion that I can plan on that kind of serendipity in future choices.
I had no trouble deciding that my packing peanuts, "The Red Boys" had to go. There were, after all, an impossible 5 of them and I had not planned on any roosters at all in a flock that was supposed to be only 4-6.
It was made easier by the fact that while Vinnie was a rather personable fellow, bold and curious, I was completely unable to tell Parm, Fry, Fric, and Stew apart.
And even easier by the fact that, though I love black, white, and black and white chickens, and can appreciate the charms of the buffs, I must admit -- with apologies to those who adore their RIRs, New Hampshires, etc. -- that I loathe red chickens. There is simply something about them that I find utterly unappealing.
Then, a few days after the Red Boys were encamped in the freezer my beautiful Light Brahma, whose appearance had aroused some suspicion but whose behavior had been entirely un-rooster-like under Vinnie's dominance, flared his hackles at something that had startled the flock and had his name changed from Rosemary to Marion.
Before I had time to figure out when my job schedule and the weather would permit another butchering day, Marion started to crow. His voice was beautiful -- deep, resonant, and tuneful -- and I had always had the absurd desire to own the world's most useless creature, a crowing rooster.
With DH and the neighbors agreeable, Marion stayed and lived up to the laid-back reputation of Brahma roosters.
I am under no illusion that I can plan on that kind of serendipity in future choices.