baby chicks: please don't call them doggie treats
Monday, March 15 
Oldest Son holds a baby chick named Froseph.
I have news. Remember #2 on my life list? Well, I’m crossing that one off.
- Visit Europe or other foreign country by road bike
- Raise chickens
- Learn to tend bees and put a hive in back yard
- Have small greenhouse in yard for extending growing season
- Max out yard’s “edible landscape” potential
- Pay off all debt (including mortgage)
- Become financially stable enough that I can work less…
We got six baby chicks last week. I wasn’t quite sure I was ready to incorporate chickens into the family workload this year, but Youngest Son was the tipping point. But first, some history.
When Youngest Son was four, before the divorce, we lived in a subdivision just outside Bozeman with one-acre lots where we had a huge garden and chickens. One of our little chicks grew up to be a mean rooster who attacked any human that dared enter the coop. Except Youngest Son. Who knows why? Anyway, Youngest Son took great pride in the fact that he was the only one who could collect eggs each day without carrying a plastic bat.
When his dad and I separated when he was five, our finances were a mess. We had to sell our house quickly or lose it, which meant giving the chickens away and both of us moving into major life changes: He moved into a trailer for a few years, and I moved into a two-bedroom apartment.
During that dark transition Youngest Son would regularly say, “I miss the chickens. I wish we still had chickens.” Which I also understood to mean: I miss our old life. I’m scared. I want to go back to the way things were.
Hearing him say that made me ache, because I knew my sweet little Bubby Chubby (his nickname from infancy to age 8 or so, gifted to him by Oldest Son) was hurting in a way that a Band-aid and a hug wouldn’t touch.
Anyway, the decision to get chickens RIGHT AWAY, as in, “Get your coats, we’re going down to the ag-supply store with a box,” came after Shawn mentioned his concern that Youngest Son, now 11-and-a-half years old, is spending too much time on the computer and in front of the TV lately. Also, the town of Bozeman just passed an ordinance that allows up to six laying hens to be kept inside the city limits on regular urban lots.
We asked Youngest Son if he’d want to help build a starter box and an Angus-proof coop for the chickens, and make caring for them mostly his job. He jumped at it, and Oldest Son chimed in that he would gladly help as well (Middle Son is sort of ambivalent about chickens)…One of Oldest Son’s best buddies also went to pick out one of the chickens, and named it. Despite the fact that we’re hoping these chicks are all girls, the boys gave them rather badass names like Froseph and Jafar.
Perhaps because Oldest Son’s friend diverged from the theme by naming his chicken Alvin, of Alvin and the Chipmunks, Oldest son sent his friend a camera phone image of the chicks sleeping with the message, “Sorry. They’re dead.”
Sometimes in the evening, we’ll sit in chairs and watch the chicks chase each other and hold them, and just chill out. I know it might sound weird, but it just feels so good to finally do this with the boys again. Maybe the reappearance of chickens in our lives is really about finding our way back to some of the good things we lost.
Reader Comments (7)
I think that's great :)
Maybe youngest son will turn out to be a farmer? I am so happy for you getting your little farm back. Froseph like for his afro? funny Cant wait for your next post.
Have fun with your little peeps
Exactly, how do you Angus proof anything?? I'm thinking 4' deep concrete footings, chainlink fencing and razor wire across the top in case he doesn't realize he's not supposed to be able to climb fences. You are probably better off convincing him they are part of the pack and that he needs to be their protector.
Michelle: Thanks :)
SDA: Sorry I missed your calls back yesterday. I got out of the house for a few hours -- it was a beautiful day in Bozeman! (And yes, Froseph for that cute mound of hair on top.)
Dad: How disturbing. Now I'm paranoid. I can totally visualize Angus hauling his weaselly little carcass over a 10-foot fence. Worst case scenario: Dead chickens and a blog post.
Yeah, good luck with Angus. I'll light a candle for you.
On the up side, my chicken/gopher/rabbit/mouse-killing dog and cats have learned that our rats, rabbit and chickens are part of the family, not snacks. Don't ask me how, 'cuz it certainly wasn't due to diligent training.
We love Chick-o-vision! The boys and I can spend lots of time just watching them play "Who's got the wood chip." Enjoy, urban farm girl!
"Sorry. They're dead." That earned a guffaw! But really. Alvin? Right on Oldest Son.
BTW, I'm with middle son on the chickens. After the brief and unfortunate few months in my dark and distant past living on a farm and caring for the smelly critters, I find the best place for them is my grill. (Sorry.) On the other hand, really fresh eggs are pretty awesome.
I'm with "dad" on the Angus proof idea. People will think you are building some kind of detention center. Maybe better to convince him they are kin to be protected and not prey to be devoured messily on top of your down comforter. Um...I'll light a candle for you too. Angus is pretty smart he may pick up on the fact that you are nurturing the chickens and not snacking on them. (Please dont eat Froseph, Angus.)