It's All About Him

The barred rock rooster, Mad King George or King Charles, depending on whether I'm feeling Anglo or Gallic, really is as mad as a March hare.  For one thing, his conceit is totally misplaced.  At the peak of moult, most of his fine speckled feathers are missing and his scrawny, wrinkled neck shows through.  The part that goes over the fence last is completely naked, leaving him without much reason to crow.  Still he continues to strut around, proclaiming his magnificence to all within hearing.  His predecessors were considerate of the hens, allowing them first choice of tidbits.  Mad King George picks a few favorites for the day and chases off all others when the grain is thrown down.  He runs around demented and throws the flock into a tizzy.  When I'm in the pen, he comes close, cocking his head and eyeing me.  I've told him in no uncertain terms what will happen if he should ever attack; the first would be the last.  So far, his tenuous grip on reality has let him listen.