I ate my cockerel. And very nice he was too. Usually I have a dilemma every year about my cockerels and the fact I have too many of them but this year we resorted to eating one and perhaps we'll continue.
It seems rather extreme and I totally understand but lets look at it from my hens point of view...
There you are, the sun is shining, you are minding your own business pecking away, scuffling up a bit of dirt and you spot a big fat juciy slug and them BAM!
You get up slightly dazed and shake your head a bit, the bugger who just did this to you really hurt when he grabbed the back of your neck with his beak. You chortle your disgust and give him the eye and then as you turn away to compose youself - BAM! It happens again with a different cockerel.
You let out an almighty squawk and make a dash for the barn where you join the rest of the disgruntled sisterhood. From then on in it is a case of slinking along the sides of buildings and peering around corners to see if you can make it to the hen hut where you can lay and egg in relative peace. You long for the grass and the weeds to grow long so you can hide more effectivley. You are desperate to lay an egg but you don't want any attention thank you very much from anymore lecherous young cocks strutting their stuff in the yard.
So you get the picture? Too many cockerels equals too many unhappy and exhausted hens. Solution: Operation Stuffing. I used to get someone else in and they would take the boys away now I am a little less squeamish and in the dead of night when all is calm and the chickens cannot see I slink down to the hen hut with deadly intent. Silently I open the door shine a flashlight in to identify my prey then bouff they are out and the deed done with hardly a squawk. The operation is carried out a few more times and tehn I leave. No evidence that the boys have ever existed.
Top picture shows: 'Quasimodo' the Silkie Cockerel: a born gentleman despite his looks!