Raising Chickens in Perez Zeledon

This is an old blog post that I couldn’t resist but including in the book. It might give you a hint about what your Costa Rica expat life could look like…

I’ve not been “riled up” about anything lately, so my writing has slowed a bit. I used to watch Fox News (back when Costa Rica cable TV carried it) and that always provided fodder for my rants against the establishment quo (one of my favorite themes…railing against “the man”). But no more Fox these days. Actually I’ve been on a news watching hiatus, just enjoying my life here in PZ (Perez Zeledon) without really getting too riled up about anything, except Lily’s complaints about the heat.

That brings me to the subject of this morning’s post…you guessed it…raising chickens in Perez Zeledon.

You see, Lily really wanted a gallinero, or chicken house, in the back yard. And being the dutiful, and sustainably- minded, spouse that I am, I accommodated the request.

We gather four per day and with a household of four people, that equates, wait, let me do the math, to one per person per day. Of course, lately I’ve been on the “slow-carb” diet, so my breakfasts generally consist of three scrambled eggs. But, then again, I am “the man” of this house.

I’ve never had chickens before. Dogs yes, a cat once, and a few rodents here and there (I believe I once had a turtle), but never chickens.

They’re curious creatures.

After they pay the daily rent, we lock up “el asesino” (Dokie, our little “zaguate”…who’s a cross between a dachshund and a doberman…seriously), and let the chickens roam the backyard, giving full meaning to the term “yard-bird.”

We’ve only named too of them. Lily named one Dorothy (no idea why) and the other I named Dora (as in Dora la Exploradora) because, while the other three tend to stay together, Dora is always off somewhere pecking at everything, trying to figure out the general meaning of life as a gallus domesticus.

They really do seem to crave human interaction. Someone told me that chickens only have a memory of 15 minutes. I tend to disagree based on the fond looks I get every morning when I enter to feed them.

One thing’s for sure, having chickens has given me new-found respect (or repulsion) for eating them. It’s like those celebrities that claim they only eat the meat they kill themselves (didn’t Zuckerberg recently make that vow?).

Eating KFC will never be the same again. And raising chickens in Perez Zeledon means that I’ll never have to eat a store-bought egg again, if I can avoid it.