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Chickens for Life

By Jan Nesset

"My chicken pooped this egg into my hand - for real!"

I held the golden egg high for my mother to see. Just a child,I had put my hand under one of my fancy hens just as she laid an egg. At that age, I was too naive to know that laying an egg is vastly different than pooping one. But I can remember the experience clearly, even to the point of seeing my hen straining under her "labor." Thinking back, I can feel that egg drop into my hand, plopping in as a warm, exciting, dear object that, over the coming days, reigned as the highlight of my storytelling - over and over again. My family ate the egg, of course, rather than gluing it into a scrap book, which was my wish. But to me that egg lives on in infamy.

Obviously, I cherish that experience, and I loved raising chickens from then into my teens. I raised about a dozen Bantams and Silkies in my backyard next to the garage in the city limits of my hometown, an activity and place - an opportunity! - that I was fortunate to have. Raising chickens in city limits isn't for all communities, as writer Stina Sieg discovered in her research of "Chicken Pickers," pg. 8, for substantial homegrown reasons. Homegrown because every community is different, having needs and considerations specific to its lifestyles.

My hometown is different in that it didn't have bears, for example, which is on top of the chicken debate in communities like Durango, Colo., where bears ransacking town trashcans is a real problem. We did have coyotes and bobcats, however, but either of these to get a whiff of my chickens had an over-built chicken coop to contend with. I never lost a chicken to anything but the pot.

My dad built the coop. He built it of wood and chicken wire, sturdy and impenetrable enough to stand as a formidable obstacle to neighborhood dogs or whatever wild lip-smacking marauder ventured into the city limits. For my part, I kept the coop clean and the chickens fed and watered - healthy. Healthy enough to win prizes in the 4-H contest held every year at the county fair. With my winnings, I paid for carnival rides and cotton candy.

My family ate fresh chicken eggs and every now and again we'd eat one of my chickens, especially one by one as they got older. Because my childhood experience showed me the way, I know it's possible to raise chickens in backyards nearly anywhere as long as the chicken coop is built impenetrable and inescapable, the number of chickens is manageable, the care of the brood and coop is impeccable to keep down odors and chickens healthy, and the neighbors don't mind roosters cock-a-doodling. My neighbors let me know they minded the big voice of one of my Bantams, once.

Tasty fellah, that one.