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The clucking and crowing fill the morning air on the ranch. We’re in Pensacola, Florida, and the pale glow of the freshly risen sun has brought out in the grass and trees every imaginable shade of green. Light, dark, emerald, verdant, moss, they all jump out at you and, as though painted by a Cézanne or a Monet, the richness of the colours create a scene of stunning beauty and blissful tranquillity.
It’s feeding time. Dressed neck to ankle in a shiny, stylish looking black and white tracksuit, a well built man gripping a large white bucket in one hand and methodically flinging food to the ground with the other, is moving gently around the spread inhabited by his army of fighting ****s. He looks at home…he looks at peace. [details]
It’s feeding time. Dressed neck to ankle in a shiny, stylish looking black and white tracksuit, a well built man gripping a large white bucket in one hand and methodically flinging food to the ground with the other, is moving gently around the spread inhabited by his army of fighting ****s. He looks at home…he looks at peace. [details]