WELL, I GOT SOME chickens. I do not live in the country, I don’t have a lot of land, and I thought in my entire life that I would never, EVER own chickens. But here I am, with chickens. I guess you should never say never, right?
I’m still not really sure how it happened. One minute I’m a happy city dweller, the next I’m an urban farmer. It was my wife Rachel, I believe, who said something about keeping backyard chickens after reading an article in Sunset or some other magazine, and then I think I found an article about the manliness and heritage of keeping them. Now we have three.
We decided to build a chicken coop instead of getting cheesy gifts for our fourth wedding anniversary, and construction on our coop started shortly after that. Off I went to Home Depot to get wood, screws, and other materials, and off Rachel went to a feed store off Fourth Street to get us three baby chicks. We were doing this!
As I came home with a collection of two-by-fours, four-by-fours, and plywood strapped to the roof rack of my old Volvo, my wife arrived home with a small brown bag.
“What’s in the bag?” I said.
“Baby chicks!” she replied, equal parts triumphant enthusiasm and wavering confidence.
“Really?” I said. “They just give them to you in a brown paper bag?”
“Apparently,” she replied.
I pondered the irony that newly hatched chicks come in the same plain brown wrapper that they would leave the butcher shop in. But when I think about it, how else would they come?
After much thought, and many names thrown out, such as Laura Eggis Wilder, Goldie Hen, and further painful amalgamations, we decided on Coco, Zelda, and Isadora; Chanel, Fitzgerald, and Duncan, respectively. (Famous flappers—get it?) I am currently in the process of making Isadora a long flowing scarf.
So we had our chicks. They were happily growing in our guest-bathroom bathtub under a 125-watt heat lamp. Being a modern American, or perhaps just a modern man, I have this sickness where I take a simple problem—build a small, functional backyard chicken coop—and design New Mexico’s chicken Taj Mahaal. And damn if I don’t have the nicest chicken coop in the greater Mesa Antigua neighborhood! (Also the only one.)
Now that my girls were reaching teenage chickdom, and the Coop Mahal was ready to go, the only thing left to worry about was Annie and Enzo. Our dogs, like most, are an extension of the family. We love them to death. Annie is part Border Terrier, part whatever else. And Enzo, we have no idea. A fourth-generation mutt is what I call him. He’s a 60-pound sack of cuddles.
The dogs have been baffled since the day the chicks arrived. Normally sweet and good-natured, some primeval switch in their brains has been flipped by the arrival of the chicks. They spend hours pining at the bathroom door, pleading for “just one taste,” infatuated with the noises coming from beyond. They would be at the bathroom door when I left for work, and be at the bathroom door when I returned, ceaselessly monitoring the probably tasty, unwanted interlopers in their home.
One night a couple of weeks into our chicken adventure, we were having a fire in our backyard fire pit when we heard a high-pitched shriek from the other side of the yard ... a shriek reminiscent of how a baby chick might sound if Enzo had one in his mouth.
We bolted from our chairs and ran. Our fears were confirmed: Here was Enzo, ears back, a look of shame and guilt on his face, and lying a foot or two in front of him on the grass, our beloved Coco. Understandably, my wife and I were very upset. We had not closed the bathroom door quite enough, and Enzo, being the opportunist that he is, saw his chance and took it. Now we had a lifeless little chick.
I scooped her mangled body up in my hands and smoothed her feathers. “Chirp” we heard her say. We were stunned—couldn’t believe it as the chirp found its way to a full-blown wail. The poor chick was dazed but totally fine. Coco is the luckiest bird alive.
About a week later, I got a knock on the door and found my neighbor Cindy with something wrapped in a towel, hugged to her chest. Immediately I feared the worst. The look on her face was grave. “I found her in our backyard,” she said. “The cat had her.”
Coco had gotten out of the coop somehow and over the wall into our neighbor’s yard. How she did this at 4 weeks old, I have not a clue. I don’t think I would have survived jumping the wall. Our neighbors have three large dogs and two mischievous cats. I took the towel and unwrapped it, awaiting tragedy. As I peeled back the top layer of towel, Coco’s head popped out and she looked around. Luckiest. Bird. Ever.
If you ever thought about getting some chickens, my advice is DO IT. I love my little lady lumps. They are sort of hilarious and they are a ton of fun. They are low maintenance, and they actually earn their keep with eggs. They produce garden compost and are prolific bug hunters. Albuquerque is really very progressive in the area of backyard livestock; most cities don’t allow it at all. Take advantage of it, and have a chicken adventure!
Cory Campbell is a writer and graphic designer in Albuquerque. He runs MC Squared Design and enjoys bikes, boats, bingo, beefsteaks, alliteration, and writing in the third person.