Albert, having snuck into the kitchen and found a nice roost.
I was in the yard, enjoying the breeze, when a very fast moving, silent white streak came into my peripheral vision. It was Alfie, our young rooster, a full sized nine pound Aracauna, running along the pool deck by the fence, mute and hell bent for breakfast. Albert, our two pound Old English Game rooster, was right on his ass. Albert finally grabbed some wing feather and slowed Alfie down. Albert used the chance to land a few strikes to Alfie's under belly and chest. Run, grab, slow down, strike, run, grab, slow down, strike... All weirdly silent and fast.
Finally Alfie hid under something and Albert stood there, pacing, quietly waiting for his prey's reemergence. Hearing Timora singing in the distance, Albert's attention was divided and he finally returned to his hen. Alfie emerged ever so slowly, looking this was and that, finally locating Albert across the yard, distracted. He came out, hustled around the pool house, and went to his roost for the night. An age old dilemma; certain ass kicking or early bedtime. 'G'night, y'all!'
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