I don’t watch Dancing With the Stars or Gray’s Anatomy or American Idol.  Instead of sitting in front of the idiot box, I spend my evenings with chickens.  Yes I realize it leaves the question, “who is the real idiot here?”   They’re my form of entertainment.

Covered in feathers, with feet like E.T., and mostly green eyes, they are growing quite rapidly and are now in the stage of developing their combs and wattles. 

All my girls are maturing into fine young hens. 

Here they are preening,

and fluffing themselves.

Of course, Freedom just wants to sit in my lap all the time.

And then there’s this one.

This one is quite suspicious to me.

As you can see, if you look very, very closely, the black Australorps are barely developing their combs and wattles, like this one.

But this one.  See?  See how red and pronounced his, er I mean her, er I mean his, er her, wattle and comb are.

See the suspicious character in the back compared to the lady in the front. 

Do I have a rooster on my hands?

I think my secret desire might come to fruition.

Have I mentioned my secret desire?  My deep, dark desire?

No, you say?  Well perhaps now is the best time to break the news.

I secretly hope I have a rooster.