I have never wanted anything so much as to have a farm and livestock of my own. From birth.
Unstable childhood, then college, grad school; I finally got MY dog in grad school, and a cat to keep her company, the same week we were engaged. Gardened all the time, even if it was just a pot on the balcony, I was always growing food.
Marriage. Two years living in Boston, two years in a near suburb of Pittsburgh, then our own house in a sprawlburb. More dogs, and extensive vegetable and fruit plantings. We ate something from the garden almost every day of the year. Put up epic amounts of marinara, vegetables, fruit.
I could have had a few poultry in that home, but one of my dogs would have lost her sanity. She was the dearest creature on the planet, a brilliant working dog, saved human lives in her long and honored career -- but also a fully-functioning predator. She'd have turned herself inside out not to eat Mommy's birds, and it would have driven her off the deep end.
But for years there was a McMurray catalog in the bathroom magazine rack. Livestock porn.
Mel passed last year, leaving a blast crater in my heart, and in the universe; at the same time, the developers leveled the woods and open space that had made that place tolerable. We started looking for property. My friend the witch doctor said "Mel left now to make a way for the change that is coming. It's time for you to do it."
We're now on 26 acres, with a barn and pastures and hayfields.
When our house in sprawlburbia sells, I'll have the capital to improve the fences and bring in sheep, later a small cow.
But I didn't need a big nest egg to convert a stall in the barn into -- well, an egg nest.
So there are fifteen pullets, a putative roo, and eight guineas out there now. Our first livestock. I'm shocked at how much I like them. Cannot wait for them to bear hen fruit.