The Great Backyard Chicken Proposal

My husband said to me the other day that it is on his bucket list to own chickens.

A surprising statement for a number of reasons, the first being that we live in metro Sydney.

The second being that I do not recall chickens ever making an appearance on any list of dreams, goals, ambitions, or random life wishes. Not on the bucket list. Not in passing. Not even in his ‘Year of the 50s’ jar, where various other ideas have been floated over time and remain pinned on the wall as part of the 50s To Do list.

Up until now, his known dreams have included owning a KTM, which we did, getting an e-MTB, which is still under negotiation, and playing at a venue with his older dad-man band, which they have done. Note I said older. Not old. Big difference.

Still, apparently now, we need chickens and it has been a yearning for decades, nay a lifetime.

Naturally, I started asking questions, as any sensible person would when their husband suddenly reveals a deep and lifelong connection to backyard poultry that has somehow never come up before.

He said it would be good for the kids.

I said we have a limit on how many chickens you can have, so if this is your sneaky pathway into chicks and a backyard breeding program, think again.

He then shifted gears and said that when there are egg shortages or buying limits, we would have eggs at the ready.

I told him this was not the winning argument he thought it was, and a few chickens who may not lay through anxiety that comes with living a metro life may not supply the eggs we need.

Then he said he likes the sounds they make.

Again, not a winning argument. I do not think any wife in suburban Australia has ever been persuaded into livestock ownership by the phrase, “I like the noises they do.”

Once all the supporting reasons fell away, we arrived at the truth, which was, “I have just always wanted them.”

Really....... Always.....first I've heard of it!

Hun, you lived in London city. You are not a country lad missing the farm life. This is not some lost chapter of your childhood. There was no barefoot boy running through paddocks whispering to chickens at dusk.

At that point I stopped exploring the emotional reasoning and moved into practicality, because eventually all ridiculous ideas run headfirst into logistics.

We have a dog, for starters. So where exactly are these chickens going to go?

“Under the cubby,” he said immediately.

Now, this cubby is one he built for the kids. It is about a two metre by two metre square, raised around a metre off the ground. Apparently, this now doubles as premium chicken real estate. He explained that he could build a coop underneath it so it would not take up any extra room.

Except, I pointed out, if the chickens are meant to be free range, they need slightly more than a cramped little share house arrangement under a cubby.

No problem, he said. He would build an aisle along the back fence so they could walk around a bit more freely.

That, of course, is where the trampoline is.

Again, no problem. They can go under the trampoline too. I am sure they will love that when it is in use.

So just to summarise, the proposed chicken estate now consists of a coop under the cubby, a narrow exercise corridor along the back fence, and access to the underside of the trampoline. I am not convinced it would pass inspection by the Metro Farm Authority.

Then I reminded him that the fire pit is right next to the cubby.

Was it sensible, I asked, to have chickens living beside an open fire?

Before he could respond, the kids immediately launched into Steve’s Lava Chicken from Minecraft, which honestly did more for my argument than I ever could have. There I was trying to make a legitimate safety point and suddenly my concerns had a soundtrack.

Exactly, I said. That is my point. BBQ chicken is not the lesson I want to be part of teaching our kids

Then I moved on to holidays.

Who is going to look after them when we go away? My mum and dad already look after Frankie, which is generous enough. Who exactly is going to volunteer to come over and manage five suburban backyard chooks while we are on holidays?

“Everyone would,” he said very quickly, “especially if they get to keep the eggs.”

I do not believe eggs are fair compensation for chicken management. That is not payment. That is a light snack in exchange for daily farm duties.

Finally, I raised what I felt was my strongest point of all.

Foxes.

We do have foxes around here. Maybe not wandering the streets in broad daylight wearing little jackets and carrying cutlery, but they exist. I said the kids would find it deeply confronting if we came home one day to discover the scoreboard read Fox 1, Chickens 0.

My husband said there are no foxes here.

I said, “Not now. We do not have chickens.”

Honestly, I stand by that logic.

At that point dinner needed doing, people needed feeding, and the conversation moved on. I have not raised it again, partly because I do not want to breathe life back into it, and partly because I know how these things work. A man does not randomly announce that chickens are on his bucket list unless some part of him is already emotionally halfway to Bunnings pricing mesh panels.

While I am not stimulating the conversation, this has now moved beyond a private household conversation after my husband caught wind of my colleague having chickens. Now my colleague can have chickens . She lives on property in Victoria, which is exactly where a person should have loads of chickens. Lee has connected with her over the idea, talked a little chicken, and has now started his own little WhatsApp Chick Chat.

So, what began as a quiet bucket list confession is rapidly becoming a campaign. He is building support, forming alliances, and gathering evidence. Soon I expect a slide deck.

Now, I would absolutely love chickens too if we had property. Chickens on acreage feel charming, wholesome and entirely appropriate. Chickens under a kids’ cubby, next to a fire pit, in metro Sydney, with local restrictions hovering in the background, feels slightly less like country living and slightly more like a backyard compliance issue waiting to happen.

Luckily, I can still bat back the request, but soon the Chick Chat will build momentum, and my colleague , innocently answering what seem like harmless curious questions from my husband, will end up giving him every winning argument he currently lacks. Then I will be left standing there, watching the chicken coop go up before the weekend is over.

So I may need to get ahead of it.

Maybe the answer is simple.

If we are going to have chickens, we need property.

"Off you go then, Hun. Best start looking into that."

With any luck, that should buy me a good twelve - twenty-four months before it comes up again.

Marriage is not always about romance. Sometimes it is just strategic distraction before your husband turns a Year of the 50s idea into a backyard livestock project.