I LOVE that storyWell, I don't have any pictures of my dearly departed boy, but here is his last descendant, Susan.
My first, and most beloved rooster was King Louis XIII. I was 4 years old when I named him, with no interest in history, so whonknows where I got the name. He was not unlike a golden cuckoo maran in color, and BIG. I used to carry him by wrapping my fat little arms around his middle, and holding him, feet sticking straight out in front of me.
He was absurdly tolerant, and it is all my fault the farm had feral chickens as long as we did, because (as my mother tells it) when they decided to cull all the roos I stuffed him inside my jacket and tied a piece of string around the outside like a belt and CRIED. It takes a hard soul indeed to pry your child's pet from her arms and whack it's head off, and my parents are not hard souls. He survived every mass cull, protected by my overbearing adoration.
When I was five or six, I fell asleep in the garden one chilly fall night, looking for tomatoes to share. As was my custom, I had King Louis XIII stuffed down my coat.
My mother still likes to relate how, when she found me, terrified beyond reason searching for her missing baby, I sat up sleepily and THAT DANG ROOSTER stuck his head out of my collar and crowed!
He lived until I was 12, and came running when called to the very end.
He was a fine, fine boy, and I remember him fondly every time I hear a rooster crow.
View attachment 1602127
Lets keep this theme, it's a good one.

