My old pickup used to have a bumper sticker that read "Promote Beef – Run Over a Chicken." Cattle have been my livestock of choice for as long as I can remember, despite the kicks to the stomach, sprained ankles, bruised thighs, crushed toes and other injuries they have inflicted on me over the years. They’re what I grew up with, so I’m most familiar with them.

There have been some dabblings in other domesticated species, none of which has gone very well. You may recall some articles about the joys of goat ownership and how the billy that wanted to be a dog just didn’t quite fit into our happy little existence. Then there was the summer I spent on an equestrian farm in South Carolina. I haven’t looked it up, but I believe "equestrian" might be Latin for "high-spirited and dumber than a bag of hammers." I could be wrong – maybe it’s actually Greek.

Nope, I like cattle. They come into the pens when I honk the horn (or I sell them), they have revenue-generating calves every year (or I sell them), and they don’t seem to aspire to greatness on the livestock ladder. Have you ever studied the sheer contentedness of an old cow chewing her cud in the shade of a mesquite tree, eyes half-closed, tail swishing lazily at flies? If we could only achieve that level of Zen in our lives, the world would be a better place.

My city friends like to toss out monikers like "rancher" when they describe me. I don’t think that quite fits, at least in my definition of how much land constitutes an actual ranch. Definitely not a cowboy since that implies horses! I guess I fall in to the broad category of cattleman, with all of its right and privileges. And I’m pretty happy with it – get to drive a truck, haul some hay, do a little branding now and then – good for the soul.

Every year in the maelstrom that we call home, we purchase some poultry visitors for Easter. The cute little pink, purple, blue, green and yellow chicks show up a few days before the holiday to get squeezed, kissed, and generally loved upon by visiting children.

Then, just as the longer white feathers start protruding from the colored fuzz, the young roosters (which they inevitably are) go off to Mr. Jose’s. There they live in chicken bliss for a while, chasing bugs, eating scratch, running from cats, dogs, and coyotes, and making friends with the resident hens.

In the long run I suspect it’s more likely they’ll end up laying on a bed of rice than hay, but that’s really none of my business – especially if I’m invited for dinner.

This year we (meaning my wife and daughters) tried something a little different. This year "we" added four little layer hens to the usual batch of colored fuzz. In the past, we (I’m actually included in this one) had discussed having a few chickens running around the place. Who doesn’t like farm-fresh eggs? They eat bugs. In general they give the place a country feel, more so than just brush and cattle anyway.

There being no time like the present, when the roosters left, the layers stayed. Thus began our first foray into long-term poultry production. A few observations are in order.

First, I’m amazed they are ever able to increase in size. If one measures the quantity of feed that goes in and the quantity of chicken poop that comes out, there’s very little left to actually generate growth.

But grow they do, and learn the use of their wings as well. That means they quickly outgrew their plastic tub in the utility room. Since bug consumption is one of their more desirable characteristics, moving them outside was a welcome change and they seemed to like their converted dog pen.

One certainty I’ve learned as a father is when the children name an animal, it becomes an inseparable part of the household. Our little flock became Red, Wanderer, Pecker, and Spot.

They quickly developed a taste for grasshoppers and since I’m the primary hopper catcher in the family, they grew quite fond of my visits, fighting each other for the tasty green and brown morsels between my fingertips. After a few days I let them out of the pen and they followed me around the yard catching the hoppers that jumped from under my feet. If I caught one, with a little ‘peep peep peep’ call, the chicks would run over and snatch it from my fingers. Seems they imprinted on me and would follow me around the yard and come when I called. The kids started calling me Papa Hen.

The bugs seemed to help their wings too and my gas grill cover was converted to a lid/umbrella for the dog pen. Remember the recent downpours? Yep, that was me out there in the rain, gathering the chicks into a dog crate and bringing them in out of the weather.

Tired of poultry rescues and always willing to tackle a little construction project, I began work on a mobile coop with layer boxes that could be moved around the yard for fertilizer benefit. A little scrap tin, a little scrap wire, a set of wheels, some paint and the ‘coop de ville’ was ready to roll.

I would have bet big money the chicks could not fit through the openings in the wire I had lying around in the barn, but I would have lost. They squirted right through and so back into the dog cage they went until they could get a little fatter on grasshoppers. (The obvious question might be "why didn’t you just use chicken wire?" Please refer to the cattleman paragraph above.)

Disaster struck that very night. One of the things that make our place a country place is raccoons. Next morning Red had disappeared completely, Spot looked like a victim from a CSI episode, Pecker’s neck was torn to pieces, and Wanderer, though unscathed, had a wild look in her eye.

Pecker’s name has changed to Lucky and she is a testament to chicken tough. She might have a little residual scarring, but most of her feathers have grown back. Red and Spot have been replaced by Moonlight and Cinnamon, both of whom are still too small for the coop de ville in its current state but don’t worry, I’m going to buy chicken wire today.

In my life I have walked the walk, walked the line, walked like an Egyptian (hey, it was the 80s), walked the dog (on land and bay) and now, yes I walk our chickens. There’s something surprisingly peaceful about strolling around the yard in the morning with a cup of coffee, or a cold beer in the evening, and watching the little hens fuss and dart about snatching up bugs. I’m not saying it’s as Zen as a cow’s cud, but it is relaxing.

There are still a few concerns we haven’t addressed. One is what might happen to my bird dog that I’m training NOT to point or retrieve partridge-sized birds. The other issue is what a free range egg from a chicken that eats scorpions and ants might taste like.

Probably won’t need hot sauce.

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