Photographic Evidence That She Is A He (or) Whatever Happened To Chloe of the Mountain?

So it was Chloe's fault.

She triggered the mechanism that has been holding the gates of the Wilderness of Silence wrapped tightly about me.  In her revelation that she is not who she purports herself to be (in name only, her posts are the depths of her heart), I found myself face to face externally with the internal battle going on within me.  That of withholding for the sake of privacy, under my given name.

In so doing, I've cut myself short.  I've hindered the expression of who I am and what I think about and what I do, in essence building a privacy fence about my little blogspot in the cybersphere.

I *hate* privacy fences.

Give me wide open spaces in which to roam; let the wind whip through my hair ~

But I digress.  Most of my readers are unaware of the battle within, merely aware that I've rarely posted for some time.  Anemic, occasional posts.  Well, okay, maybe not so anemic.  But in the realm of what has been going on in the depths, behind the scenes of ChoiceCentral?  Anemic.

I, Choosers, *chose* to lock myself up.  A cage of my own making.  

And that's when The Bunk House came into play.

You see, I've failed to journal for you The Life and Times of my six little hens.  Bonnie Lee Blakely and her miraculous recovery has been a mere pebble in the exciting adventures of my chickens.  Oh, sure, a select handful obtained some news here and there.

But ChoiceCentral?  The HEADQUARTERS of all things varied and interesting?

Yep.  Missed the memos.

I apologize.

So it was that while I was moving The Bunk House this morning (which now has a SpacePort, but I digress, again), it was at an awkward angle, and I had to lift it higher than normal to shift it.  And, since I hadn't moved it while the Girls were snug in the coop section, when I did, they ALL ran out from under the fence, and began chasing bugs in true free-range fashion.

Hmph.

It was a sight to behold, those chickens, moving past their set boundary into the wide open.

So I got out my camera.

And that's when it hit me.

I hadn't even told you that she was a he.

Yep.  My beloved Ruby is . . . well, a Rudy, it appears.  And he is one fine, handsome specimen of a rooster, if you ask his brood of five little hens.

See the differences?

The shine,

 the size,

 those tail feathers

~ the size of those FEET!

And let's not forget his comb, perhaps one of the most tell-tale indicators.

It was no mistake, that all these circumstances happened within twenty four hours of one another.

Nope.  If Chloe of the Mountain (RIP) can do it . . .

If my dang CHICKEN can do it . . .

Then I can too.

I'm out.  Wide Open.  Again.

Whew.

I may or may not pick up a psuedonym.  That remains to be seen.  The more important thing, methinks, is that I stop editing myself, and get back to blogging and telling it like it is, from the headquarters of ChoiceCentral.