Raising chickens is all the rage around these parts. Several of our acquaintances meet with varied levels of success in this regard. Some choose their breed based on the color egg they produce. Some feel betrayed when what they thought would be a hen, turns out to be a rooster. City codes limit number and gender for some. I know of at least three who name their chickens and even claim to love their chickens.
All of this is perfectly fine with me as long as chickens don’t live in my back yard.
Just yesterday a friend was surveying the dog run that connects our backyard to our neighbors and proclaimed it an ideal place for chickens. What is it about chickens?
Obviously, I’m a city girl. Keeping a bin of composting worms is a stretch for me. I mean, even they have to be fed. I come from citified kin, or so I always believed until one recent day I paged through an old old album of family pictures and came across this one, captioned: “Carl and his chickens.” My dad had chickens?!
Just when you think you know someone….