Boys Will Be Boys

Shamelessly overt displays of testosterone abound here at the Clark Ranch.

Would you like some examples? Oh, I will gladly provide. 

For my first example I give you our rooster. What could possibly exhibit more testosterone than...um, a cock? (Please, I must be allowed to make this pun at least once!)

And how about the male dominance that is asserted through that classic number we all know as the Chicken Dance? No, not the one played at the roller rinks of our 1980s childhoods. I mean this one--where Brendon, my patient and studly husband--attempts to corral one of our fowl in order to pick it up and pet it. 

He claims that he does this because he wants them to remember his scent while he's away offshore for weeks at a time. But I wonder if perhaps he doesn't like to assert his alpha-male-ness just a little, even in our chicken coop.

And finally there's the endless flirting. No, not by my husband (except with me. Yes, he may be 6 feet 4 inches of lean ex-Navy muscle, but he seems to only have eyes for this often-sweaty redhead in a dirty apron. Go figure.)

Brendon's flirting with me...Buddy's flirting with everyone.

No, the flirting is committed by none other than our little Cassanova of a dog. Yes, Buddy is is the coquette of the Clark household, and he's totally living it up. When I turn from feeding him to tend to the chickens, he leaps and dances across the yard in a wild attempt to provoke some sort of response. 

Today I looked up and he had managed to wrap a towel he'd been chewing on around his head like a bonnet. He stared at me, the ends of the towel in his mouth, as if to say, "What, this? I had no idea it would be humorous and adorable! No, really, you don't have to rush over and pet me at all."

It's not just with us, either. He actually stops traffic while we're on our neighborhood walks. And that's both pedestrian and vehicular traffic. Folks are constantly squealing and exclaiming something about a beautiful puppy, and this evening a white Honda slowed down to a crawl next to us while the little old lady in the passenger seat pressed her face against the window and waved at him. 

As usual, Buddy wagged his (apparently totally attractive) tail and slobbered back.

So what does one do when overrun with manliness in her own home? Well, she starts by relocating her rooster. Especially when her neighbors have begun to pointedly ask her whether there are chickens in her back yard (because EVERYONE can hear Floyd crowing in the mornings).

Thank you, coworker. See Floyd down in the bottom right? Who rules the roost now!?

Luckily, my dear coworker has room in her flock for a rooster. She lives out of town a little ways and has 5 beautiful acres where she, her family, her chickens, horses, and dogs all live quite happily. 

Floyd-in-a-box, in the passenger seat. Luckily there was no en route escape. I don't think I'd be a good driver with an angry rooster flying around the Yaris.

So Tuesday evening I went out into our coop, performed the Chicken Dance, and boxed Floyd up to drive him out to his new home.

Three days later, I hear he is settling in quite nicely among the other chickens. 

And at least for the moment, it doesn't feel quite so utterly male-dominated around here. Now let's just hope that Peepsie doesn't decide to crow.