We have chickens. Five little fur-balls in a crate on the dining room table. There is a bigger one, old enough to be outside, but the ones that I keep staring at and checking every few minutes are the chicks. They huddle together-and on top of each other-  as if trying to form a ball of chicken. Their little wings are just starting to poke out of the fuzz. They are wonderful. I love them.

The dogs are going crazy.   LouLou killed two mostly-grown chicks when we were just getting set up. Now we are more vigilant and she knows she won’t get that lucky again. She and Buddy keep a vigil but it’s kind of half-hearted. In another month all the chicks will be outside. We’ve turned the sidewalk running around the side of the house into Chicken Central and it’s a lovely space with dappled shade and plenty of room for walking around and being chickens.

 I rent out my extra bedroom and bath and at least 14 prospective tenants have asked me about keeping chickens.  “Go right ahead”, I always say, knowing none of them are really ambitious enough to do it.  (It’s a LOT of work.) Then Jon moved in and actually built a coop in the back yard. We’ve moved the chicken area to the side, better protected and also closer to the neighbors, who also have chickens. The “big” one, a half-grown white silky with a fetching topknot, seems to like hearing the neighbors’ chickens.  We call her Silky Silk ’cause she’s definitely a rapper.  I love how she walks so deliberately, lifting her feet up high. 

Someday, I guess, we’ll be getting eggs from them but I don’t really care.  Our home is a happier, though messier, place. We have chickens.

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