When you're a Jet

This is Harold.  He's one of the previous batch of chicks born and bred on our property.  We know he's a he because he acts like one, and the crowing was a bit of a give away.  Harold is a loner.  He won't assimilate with the rest of the chicken family.  He's broken away into his own gang and recruited a couple of the younger hens into his posse.  He's always in trouble and is constantly chased by Cyril our team leader rooster who pulls him by his feathers but cannot get him to join the group.  Cyril storms off spitting white down all the way back to the hen house.  We attempted to move Harold on before we even knew he was a Harold.  He was destined to move with three other chicks to a family nearby whose kids were excited about their new pets.  Harold busted out and took off before we could get him on the bus.  He trusts no one since that day.  He's cuts a lonely figure in the yard, living by his own rules.  If I found cigarette buts behind the fishing shed I'd suspect Harold.  His gang hang around as opposed to the energetic foraging done by the others.  They hang out in trees and look down on the others.  Their request for a pool table has been denied.  I'm not sure about Harold's future if the rumbles continue.  I've seen the likes of Harold's along the edge of highways.  They ignore the rattle and thunder of the early morning traffic as if they've turned their backs on civilisation.  They're chicken outlaws.  Prone to holding up wagon trains I suspect.  We can only hope that one day he'll grow up and turn out to be fine upstanding rooster as the others are.  Failing that we'll have a chicken stomping around our property in a leather jacket.