Accepting Fate

Buffy the chicken was named, official chicken feed was purchased, and a warm home in a dog crate with a cardboard Blue Apron box and a ton of shredded paper as nesting material had been provided. The chicken could be let out of its box (at this time, chicken sex was still an unknown) to wander around the kitchen. The cats, Hunter and Pocus, were curious about Buffy, but not aggressive in any way–they would all wander around at a safe distance from each other. Buffy was pet-able and would roost on my arm. This chicken had found a new home.

But an indoor chicken she could not remain. Chickens are messy, poopy things. They walk in their food and water, often tipping over the dishes. They drop waste bombs everywhere and anywhere with impressive frequency. As Jeff continued his journey in the Southwest with Team Rubicon, still reckoning bird placement, I’m online searching for backyard chicken coops.

This is not a small world, this world of coops. You wanna spend $50 on a coop? Here you go. $20,000 with custom lighting and architecture? No problem.

With one chicken and a small backyard, I go for the modest end of things. Not the most modest, but reasonable. Obviously I bought it from a chicken- or farm-focused website or some other specialty dealer. Nope. Wayfair. They had just what I need. (Sorry to plant their jingle in your mind.)

 

 

 

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