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I tell you, having actually lived closely with a rooster as an adult—a good rooster is the most chivalrous animal I have ever encountered in my goddamn life.
All these internet twits lamenting the loss of “traditional manhood” who seem to be longing for some kind of cross between Le Morte d’Arthur and the Quiverfull movement are being routinely shown up by a bird with a brain the size of a filbert.
Dotson the rooster is a combination of gallant protector, worm locater, heat source, and occasional sex pot. And he’s even gallant about that. Is Madam in the mood? Madam is not. Ok, Dotson will go back to finding worms.
He’s got claws like a small saurian and has never so much as disturbed the down on a hen’s back during sex. Strong Independent Chicken is not into men? Fine. They are best buds and, apparently, tag-teaming one of the more adventurous hens.
Hen is having a tough egg? Dotson will sit in the nest box and croon to her. Tasty treat? Let me drop it and call the ladies over. (Except for bittercress, he is a hog for bittercress.)
Hens have a squabble? Dotson...ok, Dotson doesn’t get involved in that. That is Hen Business. You just tell Dotson who’s in charge afterward.
You ask me, the reason Peterson picked lobsters is because a good rooster was much too high a person standard. Feh, sez I.
