08/31/2026
Once upon a time, there were two breeders.
They both had beautiful birds.
They both spent long nights in the barn. Both hauled feed, cleaned pens, worried over hatching eggs, watched chicks grow, and celebrated when something special finally hatched.
From the outside, they looked much the same.
But their hearts were different.
The first breeder counted everything.
Every bird had a price.
Every egg had a value.
Every conversation was an opportunity to make a sale.
They guarded their knowledge because they were afraid that if someone else learned what they knew, that person might become competition.
They kept their best birds close, not because they were protecting the breed, but because they were protecting their advantage.
When someone asked a question, they thought, “What can I get from this?”
When another breeder succeeded, they wondered how they could make themselves look better.
Their program grew.
But their circle never did.
The second breeder counted differently.
They counted the hours spent learning.
The mistakes they had made and lessons they could spare someone else from making.
The people who had started with one bird and eventually built something beautiful.
They knew you couldn't give away everything and still build a breeding program. They understood that good stock, years of work, careful selection, and knowledge have value.
But they also understood something else:
A breed doesn't become better because one person succeeds. It becomes better when good breeders care enough to leave it better than they found it.
So they shared what they could.
They helped a new breeder understand why a certain bird belonged in a breeding pen and another didn't.
They encouraged someone who had just hatched their first promising chick.
They told the truth about their birds, even when the truth wasn't the easiest thing to sell.
They celebrated when someone else's program improved.
And sometimes, they gave away a little knowledge, a little encouragement, or even a bird that could help someone get started.
Not because they were foolish.
Not because their work had no value.
But because they remembered what it felt like to start with nothing but a dream and a few birds.
Years passed.
Both breeders had built programs.
But only one had built a legacy.
Because when the second breeder looked around, they didn't just see their own barn.
They saw the people they had helped.
The breeders who had learned from them.
The healthy, beautiful birds carrying forward the work they had started.
And they realized something:
The greatest measure of a breeder isn't how many birds they own, how much money they make, or how many people know their name.
It's what remains when their name is no longer attached to the work.
A selfish breeder asks,
“What can this breed do for me?”
A breeder who serves the breed asks,
“What can I do for this breed?”
And maybe that's the difference between simply owning birds and being a true steward of a breed.
Because someday, all of us will eventually step away from our barns.
The pens will belong to someone else.
The birds will belong to someone else.
And the next generation will carry the work forward.
The question is:
What will we leave them?
