and then your wife start gettin' all mad, because the roof won't close, and the bed that's in the shape of your face is gettin' rained on?

This rooster will be dead soon. Just so you know.

Tomorrow's the day. We've sequestered the males of the species, all but the Australorp rooster. And by "we" I mean "John went out in his tapey chore pants--these ones: hideous, right? I KNOW, he won't throw them away--and chased the chickens around in the run until he caught all the desirables and excused them into the yard, ripping the seam of his pants from crotch to waistband in the process, and I'm not sewing them shut again, if he was wondering."

The condemned roosters get to stay in the run with water, but no food. That's so . . . let's see, how can I say this delicately? How about this: it's so they can digest all the food they have in their stomachs, poop it out in those soft, greenish turds with the surrounding milky liquid, and not put anything more in the system. That way when we cut their heads off, dip their dead bodies into boiling water, yank out all their feathers, then cut them open and tear out their guts there won't be a bunch of half-digested food in the intestines and poop in the bowels that will get all over our precious meat. Phew! I hope you were able to get the gist of what I was saying, despite my painstaking obfuscation of the gory details.

I don't take pleasure in killing these fellows, but it's too many roosters per hen and we may as well not waste their lives, right?