“What the Cluck? Confessions of an Accidental Chicken Keeper”

When I first told my family I was going to start keeping chickens, the reaction ranged from quiet amusement to outright laughter, which, I must say, was not entirely supportive. My sister asked whether chickens came with a warranty or, perhaps, roadside assistance. My neighbour, Tom, asked whether I’d considered raising something easier, like cacti. Undeterred—or perhaps driven by stubbornness, which is often indistinguishable from determination—I plunged headfirst into the world of poultry.

There was an awful lot I didn’t know. For example, chickens aren’t born knowing where to lay eggs. I had assumed they came pre-programmed like miniature, feathered vending machines. Apparently not. It took the better part of a week and several long conversations (mostly one-sided, but still valuable) with a particularly sceptical hen named Gladys before the first egg appeared. I suspect it was more out of pity than biology.

Then there was the matter of predators. The books had warned me about foxes and raccoons, but none of them mentioned what to do if your chickens are too stupid to know they’re in danger. One night at approximately 3 a.m., I discovered this oversight. The coop erupted in panic—mostly mine—as I stumbled about waving a broom, shouting threats at an offending raccoon, who merely looked mildly inconvenienced.

Over the months, I developed something resembling competence, or at least the appearance of it. I learned how to build a coop sturdy enough to withstand gale-force winds, curious foxes, and even the enthusiastic scratching of an overly ambitious hen called Luna, whose personal hobby was undermining structural integrity.

Surprisingly, chickens also came with an unexpected social bonus. It turns out that once you start keeping chickens, you’re inducted into a secret society. People I’d never spoken to before would suddenly approach me at the feed store, whispering urgently about mites, or conspiratorially sharing coop-cleaning secrets like spies exchanging intelligence.

I found myself deeply involved in debates about breeds, feed, and the mysterious alchemy of compost. And while I initially considered myself above such mundane things as chicken social hierarchies, it wasn’t long before I had opinions. Strong opinions. Daisy, a wonderfully laid-back chicken, became my favourite after I observed her approach life with the casual indifference of someone who’d read the manual and chosen to ignore it.

I’ve since learned a great deal, like how each bird possesses a distinct personality—some mild, some meddlesome, and some outright militant (Piper, I’m looking at you). One morning, sipping tea on my porch and contemplating whether chickens had perfected sarcasm or merely mimicked mine, I found Piper—my particularly bossy hen—staring at me accusingly. It was her standard look, a subtle blend of annoyance and mild contempt that I suspected chickens learned during secret night-time classes. “What?” I asked her, defensively. She responded by laying an egg right there, without ceremony, and walking away, presumably to tell the others what she’d done. It felt like a dare, or perhaps a challenge.

But perhaps the most important lesson I’ve learned from my chickens is resilience. In the face of chaos, you have two choices: panic wildly or scratch around calmly in the dirt until something interesting turns up.

As the sun dips down and my flock settles in, I’ve realised chicken-keeping isn’t just about eggs or composting or even foiling nocturnal invaders armed only with a broom. It’s about laughing at life’s absurdities, about building something imperfect but wonderful, and most importantly, about embracing the joyful cluck-filled madness that chickens inevitably bring to one’s life. So, if you’re thinking of joining the poultry club, remember: chickens aren’t just pets or producers—they’re feathered philosophers teaching us not to take life too seriously, one egg at a time.

My chickens—especially Daisy, the mellow one who treated life as one continuous day at the beach, and Luna, whose endless curiosity had once necessitated extracting her from the toaster—became minor celebrities among friends and neighbors. Even Piper, whose iron-winged reign was legendary, softened slightly towards me (meaning she reduced her disapproving stares from daily to merely thrice-weekly).

So here I sit, still sipping tea, watching chickens whose lives have become inexplicably entwined with mine. And though they may look down on me—or at least sideways—I find myself oddly content. Because, honestly, once you’ve shared your home with creatures who think earthworms are gourmet cuisine, life can only get simpler from here. Welcome, my friends, to the great, feather-brained adventure that is chicken-keeping. It may not always make sense, but by gods, it always makes a story worth telling.

Uncle John