David Akerson is an international criminal lawyer and lecturer on genocide, war crimes, and crimes against humanity at the Josef Korbel School of International Studies and the Sturm College of Law at the University of Denver.

Excerpt:

The notion of raising chickens was the latest piece in my family’s locavore quest. We had already plowed under our postage-stamp backyard and planted vegetables. This left our two dogs with no real place to poop, but we figured that that problem would sort itself out. We also had beehives. And whenever possible, we shopped at the weekly farmers’ markets.

We had taken some significant steps to live more simply, less commercially, to be more responsible for our own consumption. But chickens! Now, that represented eggs, a nice protein addition to our tomatoes and squash.
The decision, therefore, felt like a righteous one.

Effecting that decision, however, was an entirely different matter, given the fact that no one I knew had yet tried it. What I did know was that vestigial city ordinances still permit residents to have two hens within Denver city limits. Serendipitously, one day I stumbled across an urban chicken class via an enticing advertisement: “Learn how easy it is to have the reward of eggs and more!” “Easy” comported with my vision of me in a hammock, hens leisurely pecking around my tomato plants, devouring undesirable pests, offering up eggs and the occasional drumstick or two.

So began my journey on a sunny and frigid Sunday afternoon. I love autumn afternoons in Colorado, and the Denver Botanic Gardens at Chatfield was made for days like this. On the historical farm that had been relocated
to the park, animals were bustling about. My eyes almost hurt from the brilliant blue skies refracting light on the yellowing prairie grass. Families in minivans were arriving for the nearby corn maze.

I waited with a dozen other strangers in a relocated one-room schoolhouse where we had assembled to learn about raising chickens in the city. The teacher was late. I cupped a coffee with two hands. We squirmed on chairs never meant to deliver comfort.

I scanned the class. We were all at least three generations from any actual knowledge of chicken rearing. For our ancestors, raising chickens was a real and necessary fact of life and probably not so romantic. The animals provided eggs, meat, and fertilizer, and they spread the manure of the other animals as they scratched for grubs and other insects. Today, most people’s only contact with chickens is through polystyrene packaging. The benefit of raising one’s own chickens had long been eliminated from modern life. This class was poised to restore to us the lost knowledge of our ancestors.

Through a wavy schoolhouse window, I spied a large chicken coop in a large fenced enclosure. I made a quick mental calculation—the neighbor’s house would need to go. Thoughts of demolition and perhaps a second mortgage
were interrupted by the teacher clambering loudly up the wooden steps in her boots.

She settled in at the lectern uneasily. She was tall, thin, nervous, almost agitated, and I detected a faint facial tick. I resisted the thought, but it was inescapable—she possessed a slight poultryesque quality to her. Perhaps one could spend too much time with chickens. The teacher explained that she had been a chicken farmer in the foothills of Boulder, Colorado, raising 200 or so chickens of the Araucana breed. She described the birds as if she were describing her children. Some were mischievous and full of verve, others were serious, dutiful soldiers that laid an egg every single day. Her favorite chicken, Chloe, had apparently followed her around like a devoted assistant. The teacher’s eyes misted when she told us about Chloe—Chloe was no longer with us. I imagined a stir-fry. She regaled us with stories of poultry wackiness, laughing as she reminisced down chicken lane. In the midst of one laugh, did I heard a cluck? I shook it off.