Le Cage Au Faux... er... Fowl... um... You Get the Idea...

We have written before about Duck, our hen who thinks she is a rooster.  There is an update to her story, and it is one worthy of the Jerry Springer Show.  For those who do not wish to do deep background, a summary of her history so far:  we purchased our chickens from a local feedlot whose veracity, competence, and drive to please we have never faulted in any way.  They assured us that our chickens were all female -- an important point in College Station, Texas, where by city ordinance roosters are prohibited.

Those intrepid readers who are smelling a punchline... consider carefully.  We have had seven birds for about 2 years now.  For most of that time, we have been collecting seven eggs a day.

And... we have seen with our own eyes she who is called "Duck" getting on and getting off the laying box hay, with an egg in her bounteous wake.

She lays eggs, she's a she, right?

Wrong.

We called Animal Control this week, preemptively, because if anyone in this neighborhood is going to complain about a chicken crowing at 5:00 in the morning it's going to be us, by jimminy.  And a very helpful, if somewhat confused, officer showed up one fine afternoon to casually sex our chickens.  For those not familiar with poultry lingo, I assure you that's not something from Caligula (The Unrated Edition).  It simply means he was "checking under the hood", as it were.  In the old days, the East German Women's Swimming Team had to undergo this procedure at every Olympics.

And what did he find?  "That's weird."  Very nice beginning, with an emphasis on "weird".

"What?" we asked excitedly.

"He doesn't have spurs.  A three year old rooster ought to have spurs."

"What do you mean rooster?" quoth the royal we.  "She's a hen.  We've seen her lay."

Our good man rejoinders, "He ain't really equipped to lay eggs.  See that thing there?  That ain't a vulva."

Lots of head-scratching, and a quick Google search later, and we discover that we're not alone, not even on Blogspot.  Somewhat reminiscent of Jurassic Park, really, though I am pretty sure that the feed lot wasn't crossing Barred Rock chickens with West African amphibians.  But I could be mistaken.  College Station is getting weirder by the day, thank goodness.  Otherwise, it might not be a fit place for a transgendered chicken to get a break.

We had originally intended that any roosters in our flock would be named "Earl" in remembrance of Goodbye Earl by the Dixie Chicks, but that no longer seems appropriate.

Instead, "Duck" will become "Drake", and will go to live as a free-range hen-nee-rooster (or is that the other way around?) and be able to place whatever kind of personals ads he/she desires.
Vive la différence!

We certainly have strong political opinions which are doubly reinforced by our knowing now yet another personality in our close acquaintance which does not conform to social expectations, but, really, we do hope to avoid making cheap political points out of what has really been a helpful little feathered friend.  How many roosters have given their families a year and a half worth of daily eggs?  The least we can do is let her/him explore her new persona in anonymity.  After all, going to a new farm, there's going to be gossipy goats to put up with.  They're far worse than talk radio personalities, from all I've heard.

Happy farming!