I thought the best way to introduce myself and how I came to be here might be through this letter I wrote to some interested family members. 
To Whom It May Concern,
It might be of interest to you that over the course of the summer, through no initiative of my own, I joined the ranks of backyard poultry owners. Around the beginning of August, a fowl was spotted on the north side of the garden gate presumably looking to whet the palette with some coveted white moths. I managed to attract this fowl with some bird seed, which it heard scattering on the ground and proceeded to trot rapidly in my direction. Upon closer inspection, the chicken appeared to be wearing pants, more specifically, of a bell-bottom style. This chicken's undying devotion was quickly won over with full and unrestricted access to a buffet of millet seeds intended for my parrotlet (whose opinion in the sharing of his millet seeds was not consulted, and remains inconsequential).
The next day, the chicken seemed to recall the precise location and address of the seed buffet, and he soon established a daily routine of sometimes waiting on the porch by the front door, sometimes scratching around the perimeter of the house and eating leftover pancakes, sometimes chasing the car down the driveway when he heard me arrive home. I believe this rather small-breed chicken was unable to hold his own in the neighboring flock, and experienced firsthand the unchecked depredations of chicken bullying. He henceforward began to proverbially cross the road each day, take a walk through the woods, and appear in my yard, entertaining himself with daily food-questing until the rays of the sun began to slant sharply westward. I know this to be true because one night, concerned for his well-being, and recalling the foxhole we found in the spring, I followed the chicken home through the woods, barefooted, when he decided to begin his trek through the tall grasses before I could obtain the proper woods-worthy foot attire. Day by day, the chicken effectively endeared itself to my person with his overall friendliness while emitting small clucks of happiness, through his wearing of bellbottoms, feeble attempts at crowing, window tapping, and by so rapidly improving in health that I became proud enough to offer to buy him. The neighboring little boy who owned him was happy enough to exchange his responsibility for the immediate and unlooked-for funds to acquire a Nerf gun.
From this neighbor, I found out that the small chickie was hatched in May, had been part of a mail-order, was a type of Bantam, and its previous owners had been getting out of birds. Overcrowded and under-pastured, hen-pecked and having narrowly escaped an outbreak of chicken lice, the bullied chickie was now mine and would not have to cross the road to go home at night anymore. His temporary nightly coop consisted of a dog crate with rudimentary wood laths for a perch.
During this transitional time, while under the constant mental strain associated with the safety and protection of chickie against foxes, concern of rain, the impending cold weather, undernourishment, over nourishment, and access to water, the help of my father was enlisted to build a coop. Many days of painting, various skin piercings from the manipulation of that dreadful, but necessary, man-made creation called "hardware wire", and more problem-solving than it probably took to build the Rockefeller Center ensued. During this ongoing mass construction project and associated research, multiple times a day throughout the month, chickie was offered a veritable buffet of
1. a 30-lb bag of scratch, concerned that was not enough, I purchased him
2. a bag of pellets, thinking that not enough, I purchased him a bag of
3. corn and mealworm treats,
all of the above being supplemented with half of a leftover pancake, boiled egg snacks, pieces of watermelon, apple, banana, the casting out of popcorn, Ezekiel bread, a loaf of white bread (in his opinion, pretty tasty), rice cakes (not appealing), oatmeal (also not very appealing), strawberries (good, not great), corn on the cob (not much to his liking but slightly interesting), broccoli and a head of kale (no thank you to both). One day, after a two-week routine had been established, chickie figured out that about the time the daily boiled egg pieces would appear on a plate, capture and confinement to the dog crate for the night would immediately follow. He decided to not take the egg bait and began making a series of poor decisions to resist capture that resulted in apprehension by force that regrettably enlisted the assistance of a herding dog.
I am here to report that the cute, clucking, friendly fowl of sunny August, who currently sits in the lap of poultry luxury unknown to most of his unfortunate fellow brethren who end up in sandwiches and are packaged by weight; this non-egg-producing fowl, has a running list of grievances against him as follows:
1. will not let me near him without the necessity of flight
2. flight is usually accompanied by loud objections and panic,
3. resents being held in laps against his will,
4. spends inordinate amounts of time admiring himself in his mirror,
5. seems to long for his leisurely hours of pancake-hunting, hour-long dust baths under the pine tree, and crossing the road at night to be put up in a lice-infested coop and pecked by the bigger birds.
I must make peace with myself to better cope with this sudden shift in behavior, and must therefore conclude that his overall ungratefulness, stand-offishness, and sense of entitlement must have stemmed from indeed having the brain the size of a bird's.
(Despite his big attitude and small stature, he is still awesome, very entertaining, and probably smarter than he wants to reveal. I hope many of you can relate!)
To Whom It May Concern,
It might be of interest to you that over the course of the summer, through no initiative of my own, I joined the ranks of backyard poultry owners. Around the beginning of August, a fowl was spotted on the north side of the garden gate presumably looking to whet the palette with some coveted white moths. I managed to attract this fowl with some bird seed, which it heard scattering on the ground and proceeded to trot rapidly in my direction. Upon closer inspection, the chicken appeared to be wearing pants, more specifically, of a bell-bottom style. This chicken's undying devotion was quickly won over with full and unrestricted access to a buffet of millet seeds intended for my parrotlet (whose opinion in the sharing of his millet seeds was not consulted, and remains inconsequential).
The next day, the chicken seemed to recall the precise location and address of the seed buffet, and he soon established a daily routine of sometimes waiting on the porch by the front door, sometimes scratching around the perimeter of the house and eating leftover pancakes, sometimes chasing the car down the driveway when he heard me arrive home. I believe this rather small-breed chicken was unable to hold his own in the neighboring flock, and experienced firsthand the unchecked depredations of chicken bullying. He henceforward began to proverbially cross the road each day, take a walk through the woods, and appear in my yard, entertaining himself with daily food-questing until the rays of the sun began to slant sharply westward. I know this to be true because one night, concerned for his well-being, and recalling the foxhole we found in the spring, I followed the chicken home through the woods, barefooted, when he decided to begin his trek through the tall grasses before I could obtain the proper woods-worthy foot attire. Day by day, the chicken effectively endeared itself to my person with his overall friendliness while emitting small clucks of happiness, through his wearing of bellbottoms, feeble attempts at crowing, window tapping, and by so rapidly improving in health that I became proud enough to offer to buy him. The neighboring little boy who owned him was happy enough to exchange his responsibility for the immediate and unlooked-for funds to acquire a Nerf gun.
From this neighbor, I found out that the small chickie was hatched in May, had been part of a mail-order, was a type of Bantam, and its previous owners had been getting out of birds. Overcrowded and under-pastured, hen-pecked and having narrowly escaped an outbreak of chicken lice, the bullied chickie was now mine and would not have to cross the road to go home at night anymore. His temporary nightly coop consisted of a dog crate with rudimentary wood laths for a perch.
During this transitional time, while under the constant mental strain associated with the safety and protection of chickie against foxes, concern of rain, the impending cold weather, undernourishment, over nourishment, and access to water, the help of my father was enlisted to build a coop. Many days of painting, various skin piercings from the manipulation of that dreadful, but necessary, man-made creation called "hardware wire", and more problem-solving than it probably took to build the Rockefeller Center ensued. During this ongoing mass construction project and associated research, multiple times a day throughout the month, chickie was offered a veritable buffet of
1. a 30-lb bag of scratch, concerned that was not enough, I purchased him
2. a bag of pellets, thinking that not enough, I purchased him a bag of
3. corn and mealworm treats,
all of the above being supplemented with half of a leftover pancake, boiled egg snacks, pieces of watermelon, apple, banana, the casting out of popcorn, Ezekiel bread, a loaf of white bread (in his opinion, pretty tasty), rice cakes (not appealing), oatmeal (also not very appealing), strawberries (good, not great), corn on the cob (not much to his liking but slightly interesting), broccoli and a head of kale (no thank you to both). One day, after a two-week routine had been established, chickie figured out that about the time the daily boiled egg pieces would appear on a plate, capture and confinement to the dog crate for the night would immediately follow. He decided to not take the egg bait and began making a series of poor decisions to resist capture that resulted in apprehension by force that regrettably enlisted the assistance of a herding dog.
I am here to report that the cute, clucking, friendly fowl of sunny August, who currently sits in the lap of poultry luxury unknown to most of his unfortunate fellow brethren who end up in sandwiches and are packaged by weight; this non-egg-producing fowl, has a running list of grievances against him as follows:
1. will not let me near him without the necessity of flight
2. flight is usually accompanied by loud objections and panic,
3. resents being held in laps against his will,
4. spends inordinate amounts of time admiring himself in his mirror,
5. seems to long for his leisurely hours of pancake-hunting, hour-long dust baths under the pine tree, and crossing the road at night to be put up in a lice-infested coop and pecked by the bigger birds.
I must make peace with myself to better cope with this sudden shift in behavior, and must therefore conclude that his overall ungratefulness, stand-offishness, and sense of entitlement must have stemmed from indeed having the brain the size of a bird's.
(Despite his big attitude and small stature, he is still awesome, very entertaining, and probably smarter than he wants to reveal. I hope many of you can relate!)
Glad you joined.
Best wishes and have lots of fun! 
.
