Where the Wild Things Are

Those familiar with my blog, or my life for that matter, know that our move to the city has been riddled with not-very-city like things. We awoke on our first morning as city-dwellers to the undeniable sound of a rooster's crow, we have had raccoons stalk us - both inside and outside our home and we have had a litter of baby kittens in our backyard. Yet, even with all of that history, I was not at all prepared for what Bryan found hanging out by our back porch this morning...



That's right, we have chickens. What do you do with baby chickens? We considered calling animal control, but I was afraid they may meet some unkind end, and I was running late for work, ha, so we decided that Bryan would deal with it after her returned from taking me to work.

That ended up being a good decision. As Bryan got home the young man who lives next door was carrying one of our new found chicks in his arms while the others followed behind. He explained, as if his farm-living was completely normal, that the chickens had just been brought to them by some friends from Detroit (both the chickens and the friends were from Michigan), and that they were trying to "get them nice and fat." You can imagine why.

Poor chickens.