Chick TV

Where we live in rural Michigan, television reception is non-existent. Antennas provide the fuzziest picture at best, and costs prohibit the installation of satellite dishes. Major cable-TV providers like Comcast informed us they had no timeline for cable installation in our area, while AT&T seemed surprised that they had no connectivity at our location. Subsequently, evening viewings depend fully on Netflix and our own collection of older DVDs.

But now, we have Chick TV!

Available 24 hours a day, Chick TV provides comedy, drama, action, heart-warming, and yes, even culinary entertainment. At any moment of the day, we have seven little characters exploring their world, sampling new taste sensations (suet = good, spinach = bad), bunking down together for an impromptu group nap, and performing dazzling athletic feats.

Take Dennis, for example. Our little Seabright chick earned his name -- the first of the seven to be christened -- by displaying his amazing leaping skill. By the end of his first hour in the brooder, Dennis had leapt over Eggbert, Gloria, the chick feeders, and the chicks' training roost. He may not bear any physical resemblance to the late Oscar-nominated actor — except perhaps a piercing stare — but that tiny brown bantam quickly was dubbed Dennis (Hopper).

Dennis is also the most talented scratcher in the group. By their fourth day with us, all seven chicks were scratching at their pine-shaving litter, displaying the instinctive ability to forage. Chickens use their talons to scratch at the ground and uncover bugs, tender shoots, and other outdoor edibles. Our brooder didn't hold anything interesting amongst or beneath the shavings other than old newspaper, but that didn't stop the chickies from checking things out with their tiny talons. Dennis, however, would go beyond a simple scratch and look. He scratched and clawed his way through the two inches of shavings, kicking up a cloud of dust and pine particles all over his brooder mates. We were vastly amused by this; the other chicks were not.

Dennis was not alone in his athletic abilities. Eggbert the Ameraucana chick developed a morning ritual I nicknamed "Klang." At each end of the brooder, we'd hung a thermometer to help us properly gauge the temperature within, making sure it was at the proper level for baby chicks. There was nothing special about these thermometers: they're your basic white metal rectangles with red liquid that rises with the heat. When pecked at the bottom, however, these thermometers made the loveliest KLANG! sound as they clunked against the brooder wall. Once the sun had risen and I'd refreshed the chick's water, feed, and pine shavings, Eggbert would stroll over to one of the thermometers, stare intently at it, then leap up and give the thermometer a peck. KLANG! This soon became my morning work music, as I put away the shavings, chick starter, and other chick-related items. KLANG! KLANG! KLANG! KLANG! KLANG! Only Eggbert ever truly mastered Klang; Belle, one of our Old English Game chicks, was the only other chick to manage to klang the thermometer.

Belle, however, had a different talent. She was speedy, incredibly so, especially when she'd found a choice morsel that she wanted to keep away from everyone else. We discovered this one evening when, thanks to the warmer weather, I found a housefly buzzing around in the kitchen. J was about to dispatch it when I remembered reading about chicks chasing bugs around their brooders. J caught the bug and handed it to me and, carrying it gingerly over to the brooders, I made a tuck-tuck-tuck sound (how mother hens call chicks over to food), then slowly lowered my hand towards the inquisitive chicks.

Snap! Belle quickly snatched the bug out of my fingers and tore away from the rest of the chicks, peeping madly as she ran. Most of the others immediately gave chase. Cutie, Dennis, and Gloria stood their ground and watched as Belle dashed around the brooder's perimeter, nimbly jumping through the chick roost, dodging her fellow chicks as they attempted to grab the tasty insect from her beak. Eggbert eventually made the grab and ran off in the opposite direction, also peeping as he went. A new chase started, with chicks dashing after the new leader and Belle trying to recover her prize. Blaziken snatched it from Eggbert and proceeded to sprint away but, just as the others changed course and headed towards her, Blaziken swallowed the fly. Talk about bringing the action to a screeching halt!

The chicks' lively reaction to the fly caused a scurry of action amongst the rest of us. The kids combed the house, searching for insects to feed to the babies (nothing but a couple of desiccated ladybugs), while J checked the garage for more flies. I had a better idea. I'd seen containers of dry-roasted mealworms in the hatchery catalogs touted as a hen's favorite treat. I always keep a bag of roasted mealworms for the bluebirds that live on our acreage. Now was as good a time as any to see if the chicks would like them, too. I got out one and, placing it on my palm, slowly lowered it so that the chicks could see what I was offering. After a few head tilts and curious stares, Belle reached out with her beak and grabbed it. Bug Race #2 was underway! While Belle raced away from her pursuers, I shook a few more mealworms onto my palm. Within seconds I was swamped with chicks trying to grab the worms from me. Belle eventually stopped running, ate her treat, then trotted over to see what all the fuss was about. I shook out a few more mealworms for the chicks to enjoy.

By the time J emerged from the garage, flyless, I was offering the mealworms one by one, just below the rim of the brooder, while Blaziken, Gloria, Eggbert, Barbra, and Dennis jumped up to my fingers to grab the little snacks. J watched in amazed amusement for a moment, then turned to me, a serious look on his face.

"We're going to need a bigger brooder."

Uh oh.

Adjustments

When we moved out to the country two years ago, the biggest adjustment was not the lack of highway noise coming from the freeway just 300 feet away, nor was it the fact that we could no longer watch our neighbors' TV from our bedroom window. It wasn't the concept of having a well instead of city water, of having a big propane tank instead of natural gas, of having to drive for miles to get somewhere instead of just hopping onto a bus. No, what took the longest time for all of us to adjust to was the space.

Five thousand square feet. Our old house could fit inside this one, as could four of its siblings. The boys each have their own bedroom now, plus a shared lounge for study and play. Our new kitchen actually accommodates more than one person at a time, and we have a living room, den, eating nook, and dining room versus the one area in our old home that served all of those functions. Best of all, J and I no longer pack ourselves into a sardine-sized bedroom every evening. Instead, we have our own master suite, complete with a garden-style bath, his-and-hers walk-in closets that are larger than the boys' old bedrooms, and a sitting room/office leading to our back deck, where a half-dozen feeders attract every wild bird living on our five acres and beyond.

So where does everyone hang out? Our bedroom.

"You don't all have to be in here," I'd gripe. "You have your own rooms, you know." Or, "There's a reason you have a common lounge upstairs!" I've lost count of the number of times J has come home to find the older two sitting beneath our picture window, enthralled in their PSPs or reading, while the younger two watched Qubo while jumping on our bed, sending the laundry I was attempting to fold bouncing off onto the floor.

"What's the point of having a bigger house if everyone is just going to cram into one room?" he'd complain, sending the kids scurrying out the door. "All this togetherness is going to make me claustrophobic!"

It took a while, but we finally mastered the use of all that square footage. With the exception of B who, being only 4, tends to stay near me, the older boys now routinely scatter throughout the house, to the point that J installed walkie-talkie stations just to stay in touch with the kids. With all that space, you'd think that finding a spot for our chick brooder would have been a snap.

Wrong.

"No, JTR," I patiently explained to our 7 year old, "You cannot have the brooder in your bedroom."

"No, N," I semi-patiently explained to our 14 year old, "You cannot have the brooder in the common lounge."

"No, M," I not-so-patiently explained to our 17 year old, "You cannot put the brooder in N's bedroom!"

J wasn't much better than the kids. "You can't put it in the garage!" he exclaimed. "I just got my car in there, and I don't want to have to dig it out of the snow every morning!" J's solution? Put the brooder on the deck.

"You can't put it on the deck!" I exclaimed. "You might as well hang a sign on it that says 'Raccoon Diner'!"

In the end, and after thoroughly evaluating our options, we decided to put the brooder in our master suite's sitting room.

"You can't put the brooder in the sitting room!" our friend P exclaimed. "Don't you have any idea how much chicks smell? We had our brooder in the basement, and we could still smell it upstairs!"

"They really smelled," added P's daughter, SG.

"And you're running a business here! Do you really want that smell in your studio?" P continued while SG gravely shook her head no.

Hmmm. Hadn't thought of that.

Neither had J. "That means we're going to have to clear an area in the basement for them," he concluded.

Yipes. Never mind that the "we" would end up being "me." Our basement was not what I would call suitable for habitation. It had been, once. In fact, the previous owner ran his home business from the lower level. Severe water damage prior to our closing date, however, had turned that lovely stretch of space into a home owner's nightmare, with missing ceilings, exposed wires, bare concrete floors, and three feet of drywall missing from the bottom of every wall. What once would have housed a rec room, play room, home theater, and J's and my offices was now occupied by dozens of boxes and scores of dead ladybugs, victims of the brutal Michigan winter.

Well, at least the chicks would enjoy the ladybugs.

Yesterday morning, after seeing the older boys and J out the door, I put on some grubby clothes and got to work. J had suggested using the basement bathroom for the little peepers, but that just brought visions of chicks slip-sliding around the bathtub to mind. The "media room" was out of the question; it was the only room whose carpet had survived and we were using it as a pantry. The library would have been ideal, had it not been crammed with unassembled bookcases and storage tubs full of books. J's office? Heck, I didn't even like going in there. My office? That was jammed full of office furniture plus it served double-duty as my studio's supply station. That left the open area we'd originally designated as the rec room; the "play room" was stacked with all the boxes of stuff we hadn't unpacked yet (and would probably throw out once we did).

The rec room would work, I decided. We'd need some sheets of plywood to keep the chicks enclosed instead of having free rein of the basement, thanks to those three-foot wall gaps. There were no drafts, numerous outlets for the chicks' heat lamps, and plenty of daylight streaming through the plate-glass windows. And, once the weather got warmer, I could simply slide open the glass doors and take the troop out to the lower deck, where the hens could roam around, peck at the yard beneath the upper deck and gazebo, and torment Waltina, our resident groundhog.

Better get some plywood sheets to close off the back deck, too.

Clearing the space took only a matter of minutes and some heavy lifting, as I shifted around even more bookcases (I love books!), readjusted the position of the TV console (chicks like cartoons, right?), and moved a handful of unopened cartons to the play room area. When I was done, 56 square feet of open space had been cleared. The Chicks' Room was ready!

When J came home, I gave him a winning smile and told him to take a look downstairs. "I will," he assured me as he went to hang up his coat. "There's something I need to do first."

Curious, but busy with dinner preparations, I nodded and continued julienning bell peppers and mincing garlic. When dinner was ready, I sent B to gather up his brothers and father and bring them to the table. A moment later, B ran back into the kitchen, his eyes shining with excitement. "Mommy! Mommy! Come see! Come see!" He grabbed me by the hand and practically dragged me into the sitting room where, in a small space between my desk and J's, sat the chick brooder.

"Like it?" J asked. "I cut a remnant from N's carpet to put under the brooder so it wouldn't scratch up the hardwood. The smell shouldn't be too bad, right? Especially if we're going to be changing the pine shavings every day."

"We" meaning "me."

"Mommy!" JTR exclaimed, bouncing in from the kitchen. "How come YOU get to have the brooder in YOUR bedroom?"

Today, I'll be putting on grubby clothes and moving cartons, paint cans, and assorted junk out of the sitting room to make room for everyone to cram in and enjoy the chicks. Good thing there's a space in the basement for all this stuff.

An Itchy Situation

Despite my initial reluctance to having a flock of poultry -- I still wanted my goats! -- it was safe to say that I'd fully embraced the notion of raising chicks and having our own laying hens. I'd read "Storey's Guide to Raising Chickens" in one day, much to J's disgust and envy. I could now identify a chicken's breed by looking at its picture (more stupid human tricks for my repertoire!). I'd attended a meeting about legalizing backyard flocks for downtown residents (to show moral support since, as rural residents, we could legally own dozens of chickens). I'd even become an active member of the BackyardChickens.com forums. J was similarly enthralled, pouring over coop designs and noting that he planned on a laying flock of at least 50 hens eventually (eeep!).

All of this came to a screeching halt when I read that chickens cast off dander.

Dander is to animals what dandruff is to humans: flakes of dead skin, found in hair, fur, and feathers. People with cat and dog allergies are not allergic to the actual animal; they're allergic to the dander, which is so tiny it can permeate the air and coat upholstered furniture, window treatments, and clothing, triggering allergic reactions. According to the American Academy of Allergy, Asthma and Immunology (AAAA&I), up to 10 percent of the general population and 40 percent of allergic individuals react to the dander of cats and dogs.

And here was a poultry guide noting that people who react to dogs and cats might very well be allergic to chickens as well.

Our four-year-old son, B, is allergic to dogs. And to wheat. And gluten. And milk, peanuts, tree nuts, chocolate, and rhubarb. Possibly coloring additives as well. B's diet is a very restricted one, and an expensive one, since we have to search high and low for specialty foods he can eat. J blames B's multiple allergies on the factory farming of America, where high doses of antibiotics, genetically modified produce, and unsafe agricultural practices have allegedly caused more and more people to develop medical conditions such as allergies and celiac disease. He might be right. I think that, with three older brothers with no food allergies, B was simply the unfortunate winner (or loser) of the genetic jackpot.

I discovered B's allergy to dogs when, while sitting in the customer lounge at the car dealership, waiting for my minivan to once again be repaired, a woman walked in with a dog on a leash. This alone was not immediately alarming; people walking their dogs is rather commonplace, although not necessarily at an auto dealership. Since B also suffers from asthma, I kept a nervous eye on the dog, as the last thing I wanted was for B to begin wheezing miles away from his nebulizer. I wasn't counting on the woman giving her pooch free rein to come over and investigate B, who tried to shrink back from the rather demanding springer spaniel sniffing at him.

"Excuse me, but could you please remove your dog? My son has asthma and I don't need for your dog to trigger a reaction," I asked, trying to keep the anger and exasperation out of my voice. I guess I didn't do too good a job. When the woman's husband came in to join her, she nodded her head in our direction and muttered loudly about dog haters. Whatever... I was in the midst of handling not an asthma attack but, to my surprise, an allergic reaction, thanks to Mrs. Uppity and her pup, Precious.

And yes, that was the name of her dog. I guess I shouldn't have been surprised, seeing as the woman and the dog were wearing matching Burberry coats.

When B has an allergic reaction, he doesn't break out in hives, he doesn't sneeze, and his eyes don't water. Instead, his skin mutinies and, within a matter of minutes, a scaly red rash covers his arms, belly, and face. This itchy rash, called atopic eczema or atopic dermatitis, is supposedly the result of genetic abnormalities in B's skin teamed up with an abnormal function of his immune system. It also spreads when he scratches, which has led to many evenings of our applying a prescription ointment to his skin, then wrapping him up in gauze like a mummy to keep him from scratching. Once present, the eczema can take months to finally go away. B's allergist, Dr. S, is one of the country's leading specialists in skin-related allergy issues, specifically pediatric atopic dermatitis, so over the years and after myriad tests, we've been able to identify many of B's triggers to keep him as ezcema free as possible.

Dog was not one of the triggers on B's list but, other than the time he ate a grilled-cheese sandwish at Big Boy, I've never seen him rash out so quickly before. Before a minute had gone by, B had rashed out all over his face and whatever skin was exposed elsewhere. The poor kid was miserable, both from the rash and from being assaulted by the coat-wearing dog, and in the remaining time it took for my car to get fixed I alternated between cuddling the distressed little boy and shooting evil glances at Spoiled Dog Woman.

The existence of chicken dander threatened to torpedo all our poultry plans. J agonized over the possibility that his days as Gentleman J the Country Farmer were at an end. I didn't help matters much by pointing out that, since B is allergic to both dog dander and to eggs (he can handle them; he just can't eat them), there was a good chance that we might have to switch back to my original plan of raising dairy goats.

Our friend P had the ultimate solution. "Bring him over!" she said. P and her husband, S, raise meat chickens and turkeys plus a small flock of laying hens. The idea was to bring B into the coop, let him handle a hen, then monitor him for any reaction. We had to wait until the rash he'd gotten from his Christmas Eve exposure to his aunt's dog has cleared up to be sure we could clearly see any new reactions, but finally the day was at hand. Feeling like we were driving to our own funeral, we climbed into the car and headed over to P's.

The meat chickens and turkeys were long gone, having graced many a table, but the hens and their rooster were hanging out in their coop. P brought B and me into the coop, then handed me a hen (a Rhode Island Red), which I snuggled close and brought over for B to pet.

B was not at all interested. His eyes were on something else: the rooster. He wanted to pet the rooster.

Now, despite the fact that he was perched comfortably, surrounded by a harem of four hens, P's rooster is quite feisty. When the flock is outside foraging and enjoying the outdoors, the rooster will immediately raise its hackles when P's 3 year old, S, is in sight. The rooster will then charge at S, chasing the poor boy around the yard until it got tired of its game. S is understandably terrified of the rooster.

B wanted to pet THAT rooster.

"Look, honey," I cooed, stroking the Rhode Island Red's back. "See the nice chicken? See how Mommy is petting her? Don't you want to pet her, too?" B reached out a hand, patted her on the rump twice, then refocused his attention on the rooster. I looked at P, my eyes pleading for assistance.

P took the hen from me and crouched down beside B. "Look, B! She's really a sweet, gentle hen," P said. "Would you like to hold her?"

B shook his head, then reached out and started stroking the rooster. The rooster turned his head, eyed B, then returned to being adulated by his hens, apparently deciding B was either yet another admirer or just not worth the effort to chase. P and I exchanged amazed glances, then called our husbands over to watch as B, growing bolder, stepped up beside the rooster, who actually nuzzled into B's hand as he stroked the silky feathers.

Later that night, B happily chirped to his older brothers that he liked the big feathery chicken the best. J and I were pleased that B hadn't been afraid to approach the temperamental bird. However, we were more pleased that B hadn't broken out in a rash at all. Our poultry plans were back on, and the countdown to Chick Days continues!

Where the Peeps Sleep

With our chicks now ordered, the next obstacle to tackle was a logical one: where on earth were we going to put them? Newly hatched chicks have many requirements: heat lamps set for specific temperatures, access to copious amounts of water, a flooring surface with enough resistance to ensure proper leg development, and a feeder that keeps the curious little birds from climbing in and contaminating their chow. They also need about 1/2 square foot of space per chick... for now. Ever wonder why the chicks your Great Aunt Tillie gave you for Easter died so quickly? That's why.

When we were still planning on a half-dozen chicks, our solution was a simple one: a sturdy cardboard box would serve as the brooder, or chick pen. We had plenty of U-Haul boxes in our pole barn, stored away after we'd finished unpacking just in case we ever needed a carton again. We'd simply assemble one, line it with newspaper, then pour on two inches of fresh pine shavings. Voila... instant brooder.

For 26 chicks, we'd need a refrigerator-sized carton. Or bigger. Ack.

I'd ordered a catalog from the Randall Burkey Company, an outlet that not only stocks day-old chicks but also carries poultry-rearing equipment. The catalog featured several brooder kits, including basic cardboard pens and plastic "chick corrals." The brooder kit that caught my eye came with a heat lamp and stand, waterer, feeder, and chick corral for a very reasonable price.

J would have nothing to do with it.

"There's no floor," he pointed out. "It's just a freestanding pen. A few chicks leaning against the wall will be able to move it from one place to another. We need something with a floor that's stable. And plastic's cheap. How long is it going to last, one or two years?" While amused at the thought of a chick corral skittering across the floor thanks to a team effort amongst the chicks, I agreed to check around some more.

The folks at the local feed store happened to agree with J, but not because of the mobile-home aspect. "The heat from the heat lamps can melt plastic corrals,"

"And start a fire," another employee chimed in.

"Cardboard's worse. Don't know why so many people think cardboard brooders work. Chicks can peck and scratch through cardboard like you wouldn't believe," said the first.

"Cardboard burns quicker, too," said the other.

Sigh. Undaunted, I checked with some friends and with the BackyardChickens.com forums (a fabulous font of knowledge!) to see what other people had used for brooders. One woman had turned an old refrigerator -- with door removed -- into her chick brooder. Several were using spare bathrooms, housing the chicks in the shower or bathtub. I suppose that would make it easier to clean, but the idea of chicks in the bathroom weirded me out. Our friend T used a sectioned-off area of a trailer she'd converted into a coop and storage area, while our friend P simply set up a brooder in her garage. We had just managed to clear out and clean up our garage so that J could park his car inside, away from all that Michigan snow. I didn't see his Mazda yielding its beloved space to two dozen chicks happening any time soon. Our pole barn was out of the question: too drafty, and currently in use as the county's spider incubator.

Sensing my frustration, J suggested I check galvanized tubs out. They were fully enclosed, easy to wash out, and -- most importantly -- durable. If we were going to the expense of getting chick gear, we might as well get stuff that lasts. I treked back to the feed store, where my one of my new employee friends were happy to point out the 15- and 17-gallon galvanized wash tubs they had in stock.

"How many chicks are you going to keep in it?" he asked, reaching up to take it down from its hook.

"Twenty-six."

His hand stopped in mid-reach, and he turned to goggle at me. "This isn't going to be big enough for 26. Ten to 16, maybe. You're going to need at least a 20- to 25-gallon washtub for that many chicks. We don't carry those."

Great. If a country store that carries chicken feed, horehound candy, and horse halters doesn't carry large-sized washtubs, where were we going to find one?

Why, Amazon, of course. J hopped on and, within minutes, had created a new wish list, complete with a 46-gallon washtub, galvanized chick feeder, heat lamp, bulbs, and more. I pulled the list up on my laptop and grimaced when I saw that none of these items qualified for Amazon Prime, the free-shipping service I'd paid membership fees to enjoy. I could only imagine what the shipping costs would be on a 44-gallon, galvanized steel tub, and expressed as much. But at least now we knew that such tubs did exist. The search was on!

And so it was that on a blizzarding Monday evening, with work cancelled due to the weather for me and J home early because of the swirling snows, we found ourselves driving in almost white-out conditions to Tractor Supply Company to examine its inventory of galvanized stock tanks, huge oval-shaped metal tubs used to feed and water horses, cattle, and other farm critters. We were the only customers in the entire store, and the employee was none too pleased to take me outside to where they kept the fencing and tanks. Only one 44-gallon tank remained, and we had to kick the snow away in order to see its full 1 ft X 2 ft X 4 ft dimensions. Perfect! And right next to it, for only $5 more, the identical tank but with two-foot-high sides instead of one-foot-high ones. Even more perfect!

The tank -- with a whopping 110-gallon capacity -- was eventually wrestled out from where it was semi-frozen, the snow scooped out as much as possible, and carried over to our car for loading. I sent silent thank yous to whatever gods had granted me a nice, roomy Jeep courtesy car while my minivan was in the shop, but even so the tank was a tight fit. No using the rear-view mirror for the drive home, and definitely no stopping for groceries, unless we planned to carry the bags on our laps. That was all right, though. Mission accomplished: our chick brooder had been bought!

Now, where the heck were we going to put it?

Taking the Plunge

In 21 days, our lives are going to change irrevocably.

Yes, we thought that when we found out we were going to be parents. And yes, we thought that when we left behind our city life for five acres of rural countryside. But this time, things are different.

This time, there will be chickens.

Twenty-six of them, to be exact. And the little peeping fuzzballs are due to arrive on March 16.

It wasn't supposed to be quite like this. My husband, J, and I moved out to rural Michigan in part to get away from the attitudes, the Type-As, the craziness of urban life. We wanted our four sons to have room to roam outdoors, plenty of space indoors, and a healthier, friendlier pace of life. This wasn't such a stretch for me. I grew up in Jersey farm country, with rolling hills of corn, plump Jersey tomatoes on the vine, and dairy and eggs from the farm just down Ryan Road from us. J, however, has known nothing but city life and, while one of our sons was born in Iowa, all our kids have ever experienced regarding the origin of their edibles is that they come from Kroger. Pop it in the microwave, and it's done. That's not how we want them to think.

J and I therefore agreed that we'd devote about a half-acre (for starters) to growing organic crops. We let the kids help pick out what we'd grow, to make them feel more involved. Our oldest, M, helped dig the fence, almost panicking when he uncovered a nest full of Blanding's turtle eggs. Our home-grown compost helped our fledgling plants, as did J's patient irrigating. At harvest time, our land yielded up to us plenty of colorful peppers, flavorful tomatoes, tasty potatoes, and juicy raspberries.

With the garden underway, with plans for expansion, we turned to our next project: increased self sufficiency via our own livestock. Our township ordinances allow us to have horses, goats, pigs, chickens, ducks, turkeys, donkeys, even llamas. Being vegetarians of the ovo-lacto kind (milk and eggs are okay, since we don't kill the cow to get the milk or kill the hen for her eggs), we focused on dairy and poultry. We really didn't want to raise a milk cow -- the expense would be astronomical. I felt that two little Nubian or Bohr goat does would be perfect. Just the right size, gentle dispositions, and plenty of rich, creamy milk every day. Plus there was the added bonus of built-in lawn maintenance.

J, however, felt that goats would still be too expensive. There'd have to be a shelter/shed for them, fencing would need to be installed, there'd be a yearly stud fee, we'd have to sell the kids or turn them into wethers, and there'd be twice-a-day milking, regardless of the weather. I researched and found that stud fees from local farms are minimal or free; there are plenty of farms that take extra kids or wethers, either as livestock or as pets; their shelter needs were minimal and we had plenty of fencing left from the vegetable plots; and I was itching to try my hand at making goat cheese, yogurt, and ice cream. But I allowed myself to be persuaded to endorse J's choice of critter: chickens.

Now, I was no stranger to chickens. My maternal grandmother kept a small flock that I helped with and played with as a small child. I loved visiting the nearby chicken farm and watching the laying hens in their nest boxes, oohing and aahing whenever an egg gently rolled out the back of a box and onto the conveyor belt to be carried off to the cartoning area. My mother even bought me chicks to raise, although, by that time, rural Jersey had become suburban Jersey, bedroom to Manhattan, and a dozen little cheepers just didn't have a chance in a sub-development. I knew that chickens weren't always easy. They could be noisy. They could fly at you. They could fly away from you. They could get really mad if you gathered an egg they'd plan to set. And if you didn't keep up with them, the smell would catch up to you. No thanks! I said. I don't want chickens! I don't need a bunch of cackling hens getting underfoot, I don't need a bunch of hawks circling overhead, and there are only so many eggs we can eat! J refused to let me rain on his parade. Think about it, he said. Read this article, he'd coo, handing me yet another feature on urban or backyard poultry raising. Check out these cute coops, he'd say, showing me Victorian confections, log-cabin lodges, country-style constructions.

The clincher came when J called me over to his laptop one evening. Take a look, he said. And onscreen were a dozen or so little fluffs, peeping and cuddling together. My heart melted. So sweet! So cute! Who couldn't help but want to hold them, feed them, and have them around? J sensed I'd caved and, soon, our bedroom floor was littered with copies of Backyard Poultry, Mother Earth News, Grit, Hobby Farms, and several guides to building coops and raising chickens. I carefully made notations of URLs for hatcheries and supplies, calling each for catalogs and pouring over their site content. I spoke to friends who had backyard flocks or raised poultry for eggs, meat, or both. I studied the many standard and bantam breeds, seeking the best egg layers, those who laid the larger eggs, those that were docile with each other and with children, and, perhaps most importantly, those that were cold hardy and could survive our Michigan winters. I narrowed it down to three breeds: Buff Orpingtons, a heavy golden-colored bird that is extemely docile and lays brown eggs; Silver-Laced Wyandottes, a recovering large breed with rippled black and white feathers that also lays brown eggs; and Araucana, a medium-sized chicken originating in South America, with tufted cheeks and, best of all, blue eggs.

J agreed with my list and suggested that we start with perhaps 6 hens. That way, if things didn't work out, we would not have gone to too much expense or effort. I agreed, but noted that we'd need some "chick insurance," since several would not survive the trip from the hatchery, would die, or would become dinner for one of our local predators. I suggested ordering 12 chicks to start with, so that we'd end up with perhaps 6 to 8 laying pullets. J wasn't too thrilled, since a dozen hens would need more foraging space and a larger coop, but he saw my point about not wanting to lose all our birds. A dozen it was.

And then I discovered the ornamentals. Fat, fluffy chickens with feather-covered legs, big poofy crests on their heads, shaggy feathers everywhere. Silkies. Cochins. Polish bantams. They looked so ridiculous, but so adorable at the same time. These were chickens? They looked more like the poodles of the chicken world. They were difficult to come by. Of course I wanted one. Or two. Or four. J shook his head, humored me, and agreed to let me add four more birds -- two White Cochins and two Buff Silkies -- to our order. Six quickly became sixteen.

Next on the to-do list: order the chicks! After some discussion, J and I decided that we wanted the chicks to arrive in mid-March, in part so that they would be ready to lay earlier in the fall versus later, but also so that our flock would be underway by the time J, a staff sergeant with the Army Reserves, had to leave on assignment this spring. I contacted our three local feed stores as well as the brand-new Tractor Supply Company to see when their Chick Days would start and whether they had the chicks we wanted. No, no, no, and no. The feed stores wouldn't have chicks until mid-April, when J'd be gone, and TSC didn't carry the ornamentals. Back to the Internet I went. I spent several hours visiting the list of hatcheries and poultry farms on my Bookmarks list, getting increasingly frustrated by the minute. Many did not carry all five breeds. Others had a five-per-breed minimum. Some allowed for a minimum three-chick order but had already sold out of chicks for our desired hatching time. Only two hatcheries, McMurray in Iowa and Meyer in Ohio, had the birds we wanted -- in limited availability. McMurray had less expensive shipping, so I went with McMurray... and promptly found out that they had a 25-chick minimum.

"We need to order 25," I told J over the phone a few minutes later.

"What? No, we don't!" J responded.

"Yes, we do!" I explained how we could simply get more Silkies and Cochins as the 9 extra birds, as our friend P had wanted to get some of those for her farm. If worse came to worse, we could always sell the chicks at our feed store.

"Well, if we have to order 25, we might as well get hens we can use," J conceded.

Six turned to 16 and then turned to 25. Extras of each breed were ordered... plus McMurray gifts each order with a rare chick. Twenty-five became 26.

That evening, J placed the order, with me eagerly watching over his shoulder. He clicked to confirm our order, then got up from his desk chair and paced back and forth. "My god, what have we done?" he cried.

I'm still trying to figure that out. But now we have a countdown and four kids eager to help raise the little fluffs and collect eggs. In the meantime, we have to purchase the equipment and supplies for our chick brooder, finalize a design for a coop of 24 to 30 birds, and prepare ourselves for parenthood of another kind.

It's going to be a fascinating but bumpy ride!