Don’t bite the hand that feeds you

Especially if the hand is Heath’s and the biter is a rooster named Ruby.

Ruby was the chicken that turned out to be a rooster. The discovery of Ruby’s manliness was at first a little exciting; it meant the possibility of hatching eggs and having a beautiful bird patrolling the perimeter of our yard. But overtime the excitement turned to frustration and worry. Ruby (or Ruben as we began to call him) was both loud and aggressive. We woke every morning to a rooster’s call and feared every trip into the back yard as Ruben started attacking visitors with his developing spurs. Before refilling the chicken feed in the coop, we had to be armed with a stick to keep young Ruben at bay. Fingers were crossed that perhaps this newfound aggression was a teenage phase, but book after book on the subject urged only one solution for such a circumstance. We had to make jerk chicken out of our jerk chicken.

On Friday Heath approached the coop, Star War’s Imperial March playing in his head. With the wack of a stick and slit of the throat, Ruby was no longer of this world. On Saturday we ate fresh, organic,  fried chicken.

We are not hoping to make a habit out of eating our pets, but this one sure was good–tasted like chicken. Rest in peace, Rubster. It was fun while it lasted.