Caring for the chatty, social creatures meant I was deep in the long-term of my new life from day one As I got ready to purchase my first home, there was one non-negotiable: a yard. After more than a decade renting small apartments in denser areas, growing scrappy little gardens in windows and on balconies, I knew that if I were committing to a mortgage, it would have to come with my own patch of dirt.
Almost immediately, I found a perfect fit. On a whim, I toured a 1942 ranch house on the outskirts of Seattle, not far from where I grew up, that looked almost exactly like the home in The Little House, one of my favorite childhood picture books. Its small footprint left plenty of room for the already-established front bed, a greenhouse, and berry bushes. A grapevine wound around the front fence?a literal white picket fence?and wisteria and hops thrived around the back porch. It was out of the way enough to have that gardening space, but still a 15-minute walk from a thriving stretch of small businesses, including my favorite roller rink. I had one pressing question for the agent showing the house, though: ?Does it come with the chickens"?
The answer was maybe, depending on the offer. While I initially started my offer letter by addressing the previous homeowners as the ?current inhabitants of my chicken dream palace,? I eventually toned it down to ?I love your chickens very much already and promise to safely steward them? (and called them ?extremely gorgeous,? bec...