Though I doubt that’s the way he thought about it at the time.
In catching Seymour to bring him to the Big Chickenhouse, I never considered making it a fair fight. He’s a big boy, with spurs and a beak and prone to violence. I finally figured out what numerous people tried to tell me, which is that if you want to avoid the commotion you take them after dark. Chickens are hopeless day people. Once they’ve gone to sleep you can pluck them off the roost like picking an apple.
So I moved him and the two remaining hens to the main flock. Opened their cage but not his; I figure I’ll give them some time to get used to the idea before I release him.
I think I’m probably not closing the fortress for good, getting eggs made right in your back yard really is convenient. But this will give me a chance for a good clean-out without all the drama. Then I’ll try it again, hens only.
This is, needless to say, Seymour’s last chance. He can live in peace and harmony with eight or ten adoring hens, or he can be served with orange sauce. Up to him. I’ve tried to explain it, really.
“I’ve tried to explain it, really.” I’m afraid that you are dealing with a hopeless bird brain.