Beware of those backyard chooks
Just in case you need to hear it from someone else, the answer is no; don’t. I know what you’re thinking about doing because I’m thinking the same thing as well; we’re sensible people, after all, and faced with a problem we try our best to solve it.
And on the surface it’s a reasonable solution: yes, eggs are expensive; yes, they’re getting hard to come by, and yes, everyone should be as selfsustainable as possible. Nonetheless, don’t do it.
Backyard chickens aren’t going to make our lives better; backyard chickens are going to make our lives far, far worse.
Despite a decade-long warning that a ban on battery eggs would come into effect at the end of 2022, followed by the supermarket chains advising in 2017/18 that they wanted to phase out the sale of "colony-raised" eggs, the people behind the practice have struggled to adapt, leaving supermarket shelves empty and New Zealanders to fend for ourselves.
In response, Kiwis are flocking in record numbers to buy chickens; future-proofing our egg supplies and flipping the national finger to egg suppliers. After all, everyone knows if you want a job done properly you have to do it yourself.
But while we indulge in a fantasy of never-ending eggs produced by a friendly backyard flock, the reality is often far different. Take it from somebody who knows.
Firstly, chickens do not produce an egg a day. Some chickens never produce an egg at all. Some chickens aren’t physically able to produce eggs because they’re roosters, and you had no idea of that when you brought them home as a chick or fertilised egg.
As an aside, nobody will want your rooster. For years I watched as people drove up to my animal sanctuary and biffed the birds over the outer fence. The police were disinterested in the driveby roosterings, so I was left with hundreds of the things.
Secondly – and unlike the aforementioned roosters – chickens live for up to a decade.
They won’t be laying eggs for much of this time, which is perfectly fine if you just want a dusty, shrieking sort of pet, but not if you’re relying on them for food.
They will eat all your other food though, and while you’ll joke about eating them, you won’t.
The third and perhaps most important thing about chickens: they’re gross.
There’s the never-ending amount of crap they’ll deposit, but also myriad health issues you’ve never considered, let alone want to deal with.
Because when things go wrong they go very, disgustingly, wrong.
I’ve had egg-bound chickens; prolapsed chickens; broody chickens and the zombie one who had some sort of neurological condition that caused her to walk backwards.
Watching her moonwalk past the ranch slider was admittedly more unnerving than disgusting, though still unpleasant for everyone concerned.
And finally, chickens aren’t always the cuddly, peaceful things we’re led to believe.
For every person who’ll tell you about their kind and crooning bird that loves nothing more than being petted, there’ll be umpteen others who’ve been terrorised and traumatised by the dinosaurs stalking the backyard.
When they’re not chasing your children they’re inflicting astonishing cruelty on each other, forcing you into ever more desperate poultry-pacifying attempts.
‘‘Mum, Mrs Beaky is eating Clucker again,’’ my small child reported one morning, having returned from the bottom paddock.
‘‘Throw me the broom!!!’’, I screamed another time when running from the paddock with Mrs Beaky hot on my heels.
Ultimately, the experience of keeping chickens is much the same as owning any other pet: heartbreaking; horrifying and occasionally hilarious.
If you can’t do it properly, don’t do it at all.
Much like giving advice.