Chicken keeping: come for the eggs,
stay for the chaos.
So,
you’re thinking about
raising
chickens—fresh
eggs every morning, a peaceful little flock in the backyard, maybe
even that Pinterest-perfect coop. Sounds idyllic, doesn’t it? Well,
buckle up. Chicken keeping is part farming, part babysitting, and
part stand-up comedy. You’ll get eggs, sure—but you’ll also get
drama, chaos, and more “what on earth are they doing now?”
moments than you ever thought possible.
When
people tell me, “I’d
love to have chickens!”
I just smile and nod. Because if I told them the whole truth, they’d
either run for the hills or hand me a sympathy casserole.
So,
let’s walk through Chickens 101—taught with equal parts practical
wisdom and sarcasm (because honestly, sarcasm is a survival tool when
you live with poultry).
Before You
Even Buy Chicks…
Hold
your horses (or hens). Before you come home from Tractor Supply with
a box of peeping fluff, check your
local
zoning regulations.
Some
towns limit the number of chickens you can have, some don’t allow
roosters, and a few don’t allow chickens at all.
It’s
better to find this out now than after you’ve built a coop, named
all your hens, and discovered the town ordinance officer isn’t
nearly as charmed by chicken math as you are.
Choosing a
Breed (or, Why It’s Hard to Stop at Just One)
There
are more chicken breeds than coffee flavors at a fancy café, and
each one has its own personality. Some are calm and friendly, some
are flighty drama queens, and some act like they’re plotting a
Hollywood-style escape.
If
you want reliable egg production, go for
Rhode
Island Reds,
Golden
Comets,
or Leghorns—the
overachievers of the chicken world. Buff
Orpingtons
are big, gentle types (think golden retrievers with feathers). Barred
Rocks
are steady gals
who handle cold like true New Englanders.
Breeds
vary in weather tolerance. Chickens with small combs and heavy
feathering—Australorps,
Orpingtons,
Wyandottes—handle
cold well. Lightweights like Leghorns
and Andalusians
prefer
warm climates and pout all winter if their toes get chilly. Before
ordering that mixed batch, make sure your birds will actually enjoy
your weather.
And
if you’re anything like me, you’ll start out wanting “just a
few hens” and end up with a flock that looks like a feathered
rainbow. Because once you discover all the colors, sizes, and
personalities chickens come in, you’ll convince yourself you need
“just one more.” That’s how chicken math starts—and friend,
it’s a slippery slope.
The
Coop—Chicken Hilton or Poultry Prison?
Step
one in chicken keeping is housing. Chickens need a safe place to
sleep, lay eggs, and plan their next great escape. You can spend
thousands on a Pinterest-worthy “she-shed” coop, or hammer
something together out of scrap lumber and prayers. Either way, the
chickens don’t care.
Here’s
the rule of thumb: if you think it’s secure, a raccoon thinks it’s
a puzzle box. I’ve seen raccoons break into coops with the
persistence of jewel thieves. Ventilation is a must—but don’t
confuse that with turning the coop into a wind tunnel, or you’ll
have feathered popsicles.
Size
matters. Plan for
3–5
square feet of coop space per bird,
plus 10
square feet per bird in an outdoor run.
Cramming
too many chickens in a small space leads to fights, filth, and a
smell strong enough to knock you off your boots.
Don’t
forget the furniture:
Roosts
for
sleeping (yes, chickens like bunk beds).
Nest
boxes
for
egg-laying (about one for every 3–4 hens; but they’ll still all
share one).
Bedding
like
pine shavings. Clean weekly, or use the deep
bedding
method—just keep layering until it becomes compost.
Imagine
the coop as Airbnb. If hens could leave a review, it would
read:
“Bedding
was scratchy, breakfast was late, and the host screamed when I pooped
on the porch. Three stars.”
The
Feed—Doritos, Bugs, and… Styrofoam?
Chickens
technically need balanced feed—starter for chicks, layer pellets
for hens—but don’t let that fool you into thinking they’re
dignified eaters. They’ll chase bugs like Olympians, mow down grass
like lawn equipment, and ignore their gourmet grain to peck at
Styrofoam. Yes, Styrofoam! Cooler lids, packing peanuts, insulation
scraps—it’s the forbidden fruit of the poultry world.
Only
a chicken brain can explain why. Honestly, they’re toddlers with
feathers—if it fits in the beak, it’s going in the mouth.
Along
with feed, they need
calcium
(like crushed oyster shells) for strong shells, grit
if they don’t have access to dirt or sand, and fresh
water
daily. A thirsty hen is an unhappy hen—and unhappy hens don’t
lay.
Chicks—The
Baby Stage Nobody Warns You About
When
you first buy chicks, they don’t come with an instruction
manual—just endless peeping, curiosity, and a desperate need for
warmth. A chick without heat is basically a feather duster with bad
odds.
I
start them in a large Tupperware tub on my diving room table (doesn’t
everyone have chickens in their house?) with a
heat
lamp.
Watch
the temperature: too cold and they huddle under it; too hot and they
scatter like popcorn. Aim for the chick Goldilocks zone—comfy,
curious, and not plotting your demise.
Pro
tip: be ready for dust, smell, and more noise than you thought
possible from creatures that weigh less than a candy bar. You’ll
swear you’re raising a tiny marching band in your living room.
Eggs—Nature’s
Surprise Package
Yes,
you’ll get eggs—beautiful ones in white, brown, blue, and green.
Dr. Seuss was right. But don’t expect consistency. Chickens lay
when they feel like it, and when they don’t, you’re out of luck.
Sometimes
they lay neatly in the nest box. Other times, it’s a daily Easter
egg hunt. I’ve found eggs under the lawn mower, in a pile of hay,
and once inside my toolbox. Don’t ask.
Collect
only the ones you’re sure are fresh—or risk discovering the
dreaded “egg grenade,” a forgotten egg gone bad. One wrong move
and boom—sulfur
stench so strong FEMA should be called. Nothing says “romantic farm
life” like explaining to your significant other why you smell like
a swamp monster.
Predator
Protection—Building Fort Knox for Chickens
If
you’re raising chickens, you’re basically opening a diner called
All-You-Can-Eat
Buffet
for every predator within five miles. Coyotes, foxes, raccoons,
weasels, owls, hawks, even the neighbor’s dog—they all think your
coop means free takeout.
So
how do you keep your flock safe? Think like a criminal. If you can
break into your coop with one finger and a sneeze, so can a raccoon.
Coop:
Use hardware cloth, not chicken wire. Chicken wire keeps chickens in
but doesn’t keep predators out—raccoons rip through it like
tissue paper. Add predator-proof latches, because raccoons have
hands so nimble they can untwist, unlatch, and unhinge just about
anything short of a padlock.
Fencing
for the run:
Coyotes dig, hawks drop in. Bury wire at the base and cover the top
with netting. Electric poultry fencing adds extra
motivation
to stay away—one
zap and most predators decide dinner elsewhere sounds like a better
idea.
Night
Routine:
Chickens put themselves to bed at dusk. Your only job is to lock the
door. Skip that step, and you’ve just set out a midnight snack.
Guardian
Dogs:
Great
Pyrenees, Anatolians, Maremmas—these dogs take predator patrol
seriously. Mine bark if anything breathes wrong within two miles.
Human
Patrol:
At
some point, you’ll find yourself sprinting across the yard in
pajamas, waving a rake, yelling, “Not today, you mangy thief!”
Forget the gym. That’s cardio and strength training all in one.
Predator
protection isn’t about perfection—it’s about convincing
predators to look elsewhere for dinner.
Personalities—More
Drama Than Daytime TV
Nobody
warns you about this part: chickens have personalities. Some are
sweet, some bossy, and some just plain weird. They live by a pecking
order—basically middle school with feathers. There are popular
hens, outcasts, and bullies.
And
then there are the roosters. Here’s the truth: hens lay eggs just
fine without one. But a good rooster earns his keep by breaking up
squabbles and sounding the alarm at danger.
The
catch? The best protectors are often the meanest. They’ll strut
like they own the place, flog your leg if you walk too close, and
give you that “you
dare enter my kingdom?”
look. There’s a fine line between guardian and feathered tyrant.
Ever
been stared down by a seven-pound rooster who thinks he’s Godzilla?
Suddenly you realize Jurassic
Park
wasn’t fiction—it was a documentary.
The
Unsolvable Mystery—Chickens Just… Die
Here’s
the part no one likes to talk about: sometimes chickens keel over for
no reason. One minute they’re scratching happily, the next—well,
you’re digging a hole behind the barn.
Sometimes
it’s illness or predators. Other times, they just decide to clock
out early. Chickens have a knack for dying dramatically, often for
reasons that defy science, logic, and decency.
You’ll
do everything right, and still—poof. Flat chicken. The best you can
do is keep them fed, watered, and safe, and accept that sometimes
you’ll lose one anyway. It’s not you. It’s just… chickens.
Chicken
Math—The Principle You Can’t Escape
Here’s
the last great truth: no one ever just owns “a few” chickens. It
starts with three hens for eggs. Then you discover the feed store has
a six-chick minimum. Then you spot the blue-egg layers. Then someone
offers you a “rare breed you just have to try.”
Before
you know it, you’ve got 47 birds, two coops, and an incubator you
swore you’d never buy.
I
should know.
One
spring I walked into Tractor Supply for feed. Just feed. That was the
plan. But then I heard the cheerful cheep-cheep
from the tubs of chicks under heat lamps. Ten minutes later, I was in
the parking lot with a fifty-pound bag of starter and a cardboard box
of chicks, wondering how I’d explain it to Jim.
He
spotted the box and gave me that look—the one that says, “You
said feed, but that doesn’t look like feed.” “Let
me guess,” he said. “How much did the free chicken cost us?”
“Oh, you know,” I told him. “About six others.”
That’s
chicken math. You start with a few hens, add “just a couple more,”
then try a new breed because the catalog shows turquoise eggs. Before
long, you’re not a casual chicken keeper—you’re running a small
hatchery.
(Truth
now: I turned my chicken obsession into a business and ended up with
400 layers. Yes, you read that right—four hundred.)
Chicken
math isn’t really math—it’s sorcery. Chicks materialize out of
nowhere, and every new addition makes perfect sense in the moment.
The only thing multiplying faster than your chickens is the number of
excuses you come up with to justify them.
The
Wrap-Up—Why Raise Chickens at All?
So
why go through all the work of
raising
chickens?
Because
they’re worth it. Backyard chickens give you fresh eggs, natural
fertilizer, endless entertainment, and more stories than you’ll
ever fit into polite conversation.
You
don’t raise chickens to get rich—you do it for the laughter, the
lessons, and the daily reminder that life on a farm is never boring.
They’re funnier than cable, cheaper than therapy, and they add more
joy (and manure) to your days than you’d believe.
And
if you’re wondering what this adventure really costs, just ask Jim.
He’ll tell you: “About six chickens more than whatever Sandy said
we were getting.”
(Although,
in fairness, I did stop at six once… and then went right past it to
400. But who’s counting? Oh right—Jim is.)
