He knows, the clever little bastard.
Every time I turn a corner there he is, about three or four yards away, keeping one exceptionally beady eye on me, judging the distance perfectly, absolutely confident the pig farmer has neither the speed nor the agility to catch him.
He's the last of the holdouts, the Outlaw Josey Wales of the chicken world. If he had a middle digit he would undoubtedly raise it skyward in scorn at farmers in general and small-time pig farmers in particular.
Much as I loved having hens all over the place, they were becoming more numerous and a threat to our veg garden - not to mention the fact that there was chicken shit everywhere.
So I built a hen run next to the small stone building which until recently had been a winter pig house. I'm pretty pleased with it - it's got a gate and everything.
Biting down my terror of chickens, I grabbed hold of the 17 hens one by one and transferred them to their new quarters. Most seemed happy enough. That left the five cockerels.
Adam - the oldest of the bunch and as close to a nice guy as cockerels get - was tempted into the hen run and quickly settled in. I caught two of the young ones and pulled their necks. Another was allowed in with the hens and behaved himself well enough to earn a reprieve.
Which leaves us with Josey Wales.
Reckon I'm gonna need to round me up a posse.