Ode to a Rock Star

Oh, Rock Star.

You are a chicken loaded with personality.

You make happy little gulping noises every time you see us headed to the coop, hoping that we're bringing some yummy treat your way. And if we take the food dish away to clean it or refill it you pace around, making nervous little squeaks until we return.

You don't care for grass, but you like oats, corn and mulberries. Especially mulberries! Anyone who thinks that a Cornish Rock can't haul ass has never seen you move when we drop fresh mulberries into the chicken yard. It takes effort to lift yourself up and run, but you do it without hesitation for mulberries.

You like to be petted on the tail feathers, but not on the back or head.

You hate being separated from the other hens, but often don't have the physical ability to get yourself to where they are. Your girth has become a hindrance...I'm afraid that is the curse of the Cornish Rock meat chicken that you are. If you were a person I'm sure you'd be eligible to receive a free mobility scooter, just like they advertise on television.

Since you are not physically able to get up on the roosts, you're favorite leisure spot is the natural perch formed by the threshold of the coop yard door. Of course, this means you're blocking the entrance/exit for all the other chickens. Luckily, you're easy-going enough to let them just walk over you.

According to all the chicken manuals, you reached market weight sometime between six and eight weeks of age.

You are now 12 weeks of age. You have mobility issues. And you eat a lot of grain.

A lot.

It is time, Rock Star.

It is time.

--Rational Mama