My name is Red Comb. I am a very large six year old rooster. I have very many different coloured feathers. I am a very handsome fellow and because I am six years old I also have two large spurs on each leg. These spurs help me fight to protect my family of six hens and sixty chickens.
My favourite hen is Bluey who is presently raising twelve chicks. She is a greyish blue colour with a tinge of red round her neck. In my roosters eyes she is the prettiest of all my hens. She looks after the little chicks very well and protects them from hawks and wild cats.
Farmer Bert feeds and looks after us very well. His reasons for doing this are twofold, eggs and roast chicken. The hens have to lay eggs which he collects on a daily basis. When the hens become broody he places about twelve eggs under them so more chickens can be hatched out. The young roosters are fated to become roast chicken, normally served on a Sunday.
Luckily for me Farmer Bert thinks I am too old and tough to be considered as a roast chicken. I have heard him mention the word pot roast when he looks in my direction which makes me worry a bit. All my young rooster sons are caught and placed in cages to be fattened. Friday is the dreaded day when Farmer Bert goes to the fattening cage to choose the chicken for the roast on Sunday. They all make a dreadful noise trying to get away from Farmer Bert. On catching a young rooster Farmer Bert checks it out to see whether it will do for Sunday lunch.
Once he has made his choice the young rooster is carried by his legs screaming terribly to the chopping block. Once placed on the chopping block the next noise you hear is a whoosh and a thud as his head is severed from his body. The blood spurts from his neck and his body contorts and his beak on his lifeless head opens and closes a couple of times before eventually becoming still, dead still.
This is a sad time for me as I have lost another family member. Next time you have roast chicken just think about this little story.