Now, I know that sometimes I can get a little carried away and go too far, but like most people, when I am passionate about something the passion TAKES OVER.  It consumes me.

I’m not sure if I was weird before we got chickens, or if the chickens made me weird? Or maybe, it was a little bit of both (chickens can do that to a person). I do know that maybe, every now and then, we take the chicken thing too far.

If you ask me a question about a chicken, I will give you a “novel length” answer.  It will be filled with extremely useful information and even though it may sound like I am talking to myself, it is okay if you interject.

I do go down to the coop and just “be” among the birds. I surround myself with their productivity, and happy clucking.  I visually scan every one, checking for changes or issues, and it feels to me much like watching a soap opera play out in my meadow.

I worry about them, too much sometimes. If one is ill, or has a sneeze, the worry consumes me.  I feel helpless because there is very little I can actually do. I worry about our roosters constantly… desperate to keep them out of someone’s empty pot. I worry about my favourite hens, who are starting to look a little grey around the edges, wondering how I can ever let them go.

We play chicken games at home. Frequently. We count and name the chickens (this is harder than you think) and we play “guess the chicken” or do chicken races. They are fully integrated into our play.

So, yes. I am chicken-weird, but that’s okay.  They bring me happiness and peace, and laughter.  They round out the edges of our family and I am finally able to succumb to  my instinct of saving ALL the creatures.

They are more than “just fowl”. Each of those silly bird brains has a distinct personality that touches each member of our family.  Yes, they lay eggs, and yes they help with the compost, but mostly, they are pets.

47, loud, flapping, dirty, obnoxious pets.

And I love every one.