Banty chickens are little miniature guys. Tiny eggs, small bodies, major chutzpah. Ours are Brassy Back Old English Game (quite a name for such little twits) and we started out with three of them: a rooster and two hens, only one hen of which remains. But their descendants live on and on and on. At present there are four adults and three almost adults. And the two grown roosters — Jethro and Snorts — don’t get along at all. Jethro pretty much rules the roost (to coin a phrase) but Snorts keeps trying to get full membership in the group. Sporadic fighting is the result. Complicating the situation is the latest hatch last August which added two hens and a rooster to the fold. They broke out of their eggs about the size of fuzzy golf balls but are now nearly mature and further complicate the lives of both Jethro and Snorts, who are looking nervously over their shoulders at the new lad. It remains to be seen whether they work something out or just go on scrapping and scuffling through life.
But on a cold afternoon in early November with the wind chilling from the north and just one sheltered patch of sunlight in their part of the world, an unlikely truce is somehow declared and seven feisty Brassybacks are all in a heap. Basking in the sun’s warm caress.