
Portland's urban chicken owners get something of a shout-out in the Atlantic this month, in an article entitled "A Cock Crows in Portland," about what happens when baby chickies grow up to be roosters. It's very difficult to tell the sex of a baby chicken, and roosters aren't allowed within city limits--so when a chick turns out to be a rooster, it leaves softy owners in the position of having to get rid of an animal they've come to regard as a pet. The piece, by Oregonian features writer Inara Verzemnieks, calls Portland a "chicken-friendly city," noting the popularity of Growing Garden's annual Tour de Coops. Apparently there's a feed store in Boring called Geren's Farm Supply, where people can bring unwanted livestock--"In recent years, city people have turned Geren's into a kind of relocation center for banished roosters," the article says--but there's no guarantee that your precious baby chicken won't end up as dinner. (The article centers around a rooster name Fizzle, and the voice in my head whispering "Eat him..." could not be silenced, but he ultimately found a good home on Craiglist.)
I know chickens are all the rage right now--where are all the urban beekeepers? I keep trying to convince homeowning friends to get bees, but everybody is too scared. Bees are so much cooler than chickens; they give you honey, and pollinate things. Sure, chickens poop out the occasional egg, but no one's calling them the most invaluable species.
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