Can't Help You

Just as the goats think I'm in charge of the weather, the hens are looking to me for help in another area.  Since Frederick the Great's demise, they've been without...well, just "without."  Now as I approach, the hens will assume the position, squatting with wings spread low.  Yuki must be reaching puberty, as she waits outside her house for me each evening.  She never met Frederick, but she instinctively knows "the position," and is hopeful.  I do everything I can to attend to my animals' needs, but there are limits!  I know I can rent a buck, but I'm wondering now if there are some gigolo roosters out there for hire.  The tom turkeys may be hanging around in lust, but I fear it would be like an English sheepdog and a Corgi I once had...a mismatched affair.  The goats, like the deer, are starting their cycles, and are cranky with each other.  The only two males on the farm, Frank and Nineteen, have both been neutered and stand around wondering what all the fuss is about.  When farmers say they're stuck in a rut, they're not talking about furrows.