If you remember back to early January, I wrote about our New Year’s vacation in Vermont, which included hatching six new chicks (all offspring of our Michael Jackson roo who met an untimely death in December).

For the past almost three months these six chicks have been maturing in our basement – in a little pen.  And they’re quite large now.  Three have matured into roosters, one is definitely a hen, and two are he/shes, and I’m praying that they turn out to be girls.  I must say over the past few weeks standing in my kitchen, the sweet sounds of a chirping canary drift in from one door, while cock a doodle dos come in through another.  (Yes, it’s time for a dog).  The basement is a disaster, and everything is covered in a nice film of dust – a combination of the fine meal food the chickens eat and their dander.

So as you can imagine, I started out once again on a journey to find homes for these roosters, which is never an easy task.  Finally I got a lead, and an affirmatory that my roosters could have a home.  So my good husband, after being away all week on a business trip, left this morning with three roosters in the back of the car, crooning along the Long Island Expressway out to a place called Manorville – about 2 hours from our house.  Their new abode is rather nice and comfortable, and I’m sure they will be happy.

Now we’re all back home, and it’s peaceful (other than the four children that also live here).  Since we elected to keep the he/shes, with the assumption that they are in fact shes, I will be quite distressed if another cock a doodle do echos across the backyard.