The 80s Had A Flock Of Seagulls. I Have A Flock Of Chickens … Maybe.

My husband has been dreaming of adding something to our backyard for years. Not that I'm in the business of crushing dreams, but I've been vocally opposed to his idea from the very beginning. His idea makes my lip curl up in distaste.

For years my husband has wanted some backyard chickens and I've been opposed. Vehemently opposed.

"Chickens are messy. And they smell bad," I'd say frantically waving my hand in front of my nose for emphasis. "Ew. Grody. Chicken smell. Gah."

He would counter my arguments with logic and reasoning. I hate logic and reasoning. "Think of all the benefits to having our own chickens: more nutritious eggs, fertilizer for the garden, and they eat bugs. You hate bugs."

That is true. I'm not a lover of bugs.

My husband was really on a role now. "Putting chickens in the garden about a week or two before I'm ready to till will really help out the soil. Not to mention all the good chicken poop/fertilizer."

Not to be outdone I shouted, "CHICKEN POOP IS EXACTLY WHY I DON'T WANT CHICKENS!" Taking a deep breath to calm down I continued,"And we have a cat who is a gifted and cunning hunter. He would totally stalk and eat the chickens. Sigh. You haven't even factored in coyotes."

Ha! I had him there. There are coyotes in my area and if Warner Bros. has taught me anything (and I'd like to think they have) coyotes are clever little geniuses at getting into chicken coops.

It was my husband's turn to sigh. "Jen, Wile E. Coyote never got into the hen house. He had a beef with the Roadrunner. It was a chicken hawk that harassed Foghorn Leghorn to get into the coop."

"Phooey. Let down by Warner Bros again," I muttered.

Ever reasonable he said, "Warner Bros didn't let you down. Your memory of Warner Bros let you down."

"Pfft. Whatever. I still don't want chickens."

I don't know if it is my excessive watching of The Muppet Show lately and seeing Gonzo's great love for Camilla or what, but I found myself entertaining the idea of having a flock of backyard chickens. Somewhere along the line, I crossed over to the pro-poultry team.

Hmm … I must have caught Chicken Fever. Chicken Fever is the only explanation that I can find as to why I found myself not only agreeing to getting some chickens, but getting excited about having poultry living in my backyard.

After arriving home from errands on Sunday I announced to my husband, "I think I'm ready to entertain the idea of getting some chickens for the backyard. And a rooster 'cause roosters are pretty rad."

My husband was momentarily stunned. We've been married for eighteen years and I not going to lie. I love having the ability to throw a verbal rooster into the room and render him speechless.

Once he regained his ability to speak he asked, "What changed your mind?"

"Oh, I don't know," I said. "Maybe I'm warming up to the idea of backyard chickens. Maybe I'm mellowing in my old age. Maybe I'm annoyed with buying a couple dozen eggs every week at the store. Who knows? Just embrace it, homie."

"Maybe you found a photo of a whacked out looking rooster and now you want one," my husband said.

He knows me so well.

My husband has spent every spare moment between my announcement Sunday evening and this morning looking at chicken coop designs and gathering information on having a backyard flock. Last night he spent a solid twenty minutes describing to me a company that will sell you a coop, three hens, a fifty pound bag of food, shavings for the roost, water and food bins, delivery and set up all for one low price. And here is the best part: the price includes a chicken consultant.

The ad doesn't specify if it's a certified chicken consultant or a non-certified one, but who cares? It's a chicken consultant!

SWEET BABY RAY WHAT I WOULDN'T GIVE TO HAVE MY VERY OWN CHICKEN CONSULTANT!

This nugget of information has pushed me over the edge. I am so on board with having some chickens in the backyard. And I'm totally considering becoming a chicken consultant because that sounds like the best job ever.

Ignoring the poop factor, of course.

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