Rocky is a broiler. Because of consumer demand for breast meat, broilers develop abnormally large breasts. Those that aren't slaughtered become Frankenbirds with massive legs, heavy combs that flop over from weight, and far more pounds than their skeletal, circulatory, and respiratory systems are intended to support. By extension, these birds have the same health ailments that obese humans do: chronic pain, shortness of breath, limited mobility. And they don't fare well in extreme heat like we've experienced over the last two days.

But 22-pound Rocky managed, as did his friend Phyllis the rooster. Yes, Phyllis is a rooster. Phyllis was rescued by "Phyllis" from Brooklyn (http://www.reclaimedhome.com) in March after hiding out under a car in Bedford-Stuyvesant.

"She's a hen," Phyllis--human Phyllis--pronounced.

So Phyllis the chicken came to live at Catskill Animal Sanctuary, and settled immediately into being a farm chicken. No sirens. No screaming kids. No apparent threats to her survival like she experienced in Brooklyn. And soon, Phyllis fell in love with Rocky. The relationship is a bit like that of Hannah and Rambo (read all about how Hannah the sheep, another former Brooklynite, stalks the dashing Rambo, in my book Where the Blind Horse Sings, available on Amazon). Wherever Rocky is, Phyllis is beside him--nearly, but not quite, on top of him. Literally either pressed up against him, or pecking/relaxing within a foot of Rocky.

"She's a hen," we agreed, noting the behavior. It was still too early to tell for sure, but we saw no tell-tale growth of the flashy comb that roosters develop. And besides, Phyllis was so taken with Rocky. Would two roosters not raised together really be smitten with each other?

Phyllis crowed a few weeks ago. "Hey, people, this may be a pathetic excuse for a crow, but give me a few days to find my voice," said the pubescent ROOSTER named Phyllis!! Phyllis is as mad about Rocky as ever. And now that summer is beating down on us, we've given the two boys their own outdoor pen by the pond, beneath the shade of the willow tree.

I still try to pick up Rocky each day. He's so very heavy that being carried by someone must be an incredible relief. I know it is, because he lets go fully, sinking into my arms, falling asleep within a minute, the sweet one-eyed boy. He's the last of 300 chickens rescued by Anne Marie Lucas (of Animal Cops fame) from an abandoned poultry market. Stuffed into crates, most of the birds had already drowned during terrible flooding. But 300 came to Catskill Animal Sanctuary nearly three years ago--some of them dragging limbs, some with eyes poked out, all of them filthy and traumatized. We cleaned and nurtured and fed and treated wounds. The weakest received intravenous fluids. When they were stronger, most of the birds went to adoptive homes--other sanctuaries, and the homes of friends who simply adore chickens.

We kept thirty. Rocky is the last survivor. At a mere three years old, he has tripled his life expectancy.