Grandpa is our first named chicken. He's a rooster. We aren't positive which breed he is. We thought he might be a Delaware, but he could be a Silver Penciled Rock. His coloring is about in between the two...his underbelly isn't quite a dark as our picture of the Silver Penciled Rock, but it isn't as white as the Delaware either. Someday, maybe we'll figure it out.
Doesn't he just look like a Grandpa? Graying with a look in his eye that seems like the wisdom of age. Of course, he's the same age as every other bird we have, but he just looks like he's been around the block a few times.
The other day, we were in the car and Meagan pipes up from the backseat. She says, "I guess I do like Grandpa." This came out of nowhere, so nobody knew that she was talking about poultry. We were all a little shocked and said, "Meagan, don't you love Grandpa?" She looked puzzled and asked why she needed to love him. I, even more puzzled, said, "Well, because he's your Grandpa, that's why!" When she said, "He's not my Grandpa," well, that's when I started to connect the dots. Maybe we should've given him a different name. The chicken, not the man, that is.