When I first heard the strangled, repetitive cries coming from up the street, I was convinced it was some sort of joke alarm clock with its raucous crow calling the righteous to wakefulness. But the noise continued, wafting over the walls and houses until I was able to recognize it for what it was: the awkward squawking of a young male chicken trying out his voice for the first—but not the last—time.

In retrospect, I should have recognized the sound immediately, for I have a long and troubled history with chickens. But now that I was in the city, in a dense little neighborhood with real neighbors within hello-ing distance, I was not prepared, nor did I expect, to relive that painful part of my past. I was done with chickens—at least the live variety—but there was my nemesis sounding off, sending me into a personal post-traumatic chicken syndrome.

My life with chickens began innocently enough, born from a youthful enthusiasm for country living and the animal husbandry that such a life implies. My husband, Dave, threw himself into chickens by constructing what came to be known as the “Poultry Palace.” He followed every instruction offered by the stacks of chicky lit that came with his new hobby. Soon we were knee deep in chickens and all of their natural byproducts. Unwilling to be confined to mere chickens, Dave branched into ducks, turkeys, and geese—along with all of their natural byproducts. Soon we were simply knee deep, particularly on wet or snowy days.

When you raise chickens you get not only the birds and everything they so frequently and abundantly excrete, but also a host of other animals like mice, coyotes, dogs, and rattlesnakes. Our backyard went from a tranquil landscape of elegant little piñons to food chain central in a matter of months. My husband was deliriously happy. He crowed over the firm, upright yokes of his morning eggs and cackled over their bright yellow color, pecking at store-bought eggs as inferior products of the agroindustrial complex. I sighed and ate my cereal.

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