Well…except for that thing where I slaughtered all your girlfriends. That was kind of bad…

I’d like to say that Seymour has been a complete mensch through this whole sordid matter.

I’d like to say that, but why lie? Seymour has been a whiny baby through this whole sordid matter. He tried to stop me collecting his hens, and when that didn’t work he cowered in corners crying havoc. It’s not true that chickens have no memory. Chickens do have memory. It only relates to the things that terrify them, and it only lasts a few days, but memory is present.

So I’m not Seymour’s favorite sight just now, and particularly when I come into the chicken yard first thing in the morning bearing large, unfamiliar things.

Like a cage full of hens…

I expect he’ll get over it…

LATER: My experience with roosters has not been heart-warming. They range from violence-prone assholes to cannibalistic psychopaths you can’t kill quickly enough. We’ve only had two in the Gulch that were gentle and protective with the hens, and Seymour is definitely one of them. He had these four literally eating treats out of his beak within an hour.

Now once they figure out where the nesting boxes are, we’ll be golden. Until the next crisis.