Day 217.

Big Bertha and Billy Bob. Acrylic on canvas by F L Campbell

Bush eggs: one. Nest box eggs: none. Feed hopper: three-quarters full.

All this talk of roosters; I was telling Unnamed about Billy Bob today. I had her in stitches impersonating the pompous strutting and fluffing he used to do. He looked like a feathery teapot. He thought he was the epitome in sexy roosterness, but I was TWICE as big as him and he had a lot of trouble even getting on my back, let alone actually doing the deed. He sort of went off me after trying a few times. Didn’t worry me much. Bertha quite liked him though and would make subtle advances towards him (involving a lot of Big Bertha chasing Billy Bob around the chicken run if my memory serves me right). But if you think I was too big for Billy Bob, Bertha was twice MY size. Billy Bob was terrified and used to hide in the corner of the chicken run and try to dig his way out under the fence. Unfortunately not only did he and Bertha never get it together but he also died a slow and sad death at a young age. I never liked him but I pitied him for that. He couldn’t eat and wasted away over a couple of weeks – tumours, very sad (over-bred Purebred).

I’ve just come up with a catchy little poem about Billy Bob:

A poem about Billy Bob by Ruby
Billy Bob, puffed up teapot
Could he mate me?
He could not.
Was he worth much?
Not a jot.
Do I miss him?
Not a lot.


Not sure he would like it. Actually, pretty sure he wouldn’t, but he’s dead.