I've been following Susan Orlean on Twitter for a while now. Her tweets are self-deprecatory and whimsical. She also tweets quite often about her chickens. So, I was quite happy to fold open the New Yorker to a full story about them. I was reading about her chickens this morning, while shepherding Ian onto his little bus.
The first line of the article is awesome.
If I had never seen Janet Bonney reenact the mouth-to-beak resuscitation of her hen Number Seven, who had been frozen solid in a nor'easter, then was thawed and nursed back to life — being hand-fed and massaged as she had watched doctor shows on TV — I might never have become a chicken person.
Sadly, you need a subscription to read the whole thing.
Here's the video:
http://c.brightcove.com/services/viewer/federated_f8/1827871374
Apt. 11d 
If we could get the association bylaws changed to allow chickens (we’re all on 2-5 acres, and we live outside the city limits: COME ON), I’d by an eglu and four chickens in a heartbeat.
Spouse is a little concerned about bird flu, but I could ride right over him with the help of the kids. 😉
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BUY. BUY. BUY.
Argh.
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In Wichita, we can have up to a half-dozen within city limits. We haven’t made that step yet, but we hope to, soon. Have to build a chicken run on the north side of our house, though.
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Having spent plenty of time on the plains, I hope that you have something substantial between the chickens and the wind from Canada.
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Don’t do it, people. Or at least read “The Egg and I” or borrow a chicken for a week first.
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Having spent plenty of time on the plains, I hope that you have something substantial between the chickens and the wind from Canada.
The house next door will have to suffice. We hope anyway.
…borrow a chicken for a week first.
I grew up with them. And Betty McDonald’s book? A classic. I saw it all firsthand at my uncle’s chicken farm (which honesty requires I admit he hated and dumped once he could get a decent price for it) in Cheney, Washington.
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