If the city says you can have them, the HOA usually has a harder time banning them outright, especially if they aren't permanent structures. "Fowl," I repeated.
"Yeah, chickens, ducks, geese." "Geese."
"Geese are the ultimate security system, Mike. The Romans used them to guard the capital.
They are territorial, loud, and mean as hell. And here's the kicker.
In many jurisdictions, if you post beware of animal signs, and the person enters anyway, especially if they are not a police officer with a warrant, you are indemnified. You told them it was dangerous.
They entered. Their problem.
A slow smile spread across my face. It felt evil.
It felt wonderful. "Geese.
Just check the zoning first," Dave warned. And Mike, don't get the nice ones.
If you're going to do this, you need the ones that woke up and chose violence. I hung up the phone and immediately opened my laptop.
I went to the city's municipal code website. I searched for residential poultry.
There it was. Ordinance 44B.
Residents in Zone R-2, low-density residential, are permitted to keep up to six fowl for the purpose of egg production or pest control provided they are contained within a fenced area and have access to adequate shelter. I checked the HOA bylaws.
I had a digital copy saved from when I bought the house. I hit Ctrl+F for poultry.
Nothing. Livestock.
Nothing. Animals.
Section 9. Pets.
Residents are limited to three. Three domestic dogs or cats.
No exotic animals such as tigers, monkeys, or venomous snakes. No mention of birds, no mention of fowl.
They had forgotten to ban farm birds because who in their right mind would put farm birds in a half-million-dollar suburban home? Me.
I was that person. I grabbed my keys.
I didn't even finish my beer. I had work to do.
I drove about 45 minutes out of the city past the endless strip malls and gas stations until the roads turned from asphalt to gravel. I was looking for a place called Sunnyside Hatchery and Farm, which I had found on Craigslist.
The ad simply said, "We sell birds, all kinds, cash only." I pulled my SUV up to a dilapidated barn.
A man in overalls and a hat that looked like it had been chewed on by a goat walked out to meet me. He was wiping his hands on a rag that was greasier than the engine block of a '72 Ford.
"Help you?" he grunted. "I'm looking for geese," I said.
"I need six of them." He looked me up and down.
I was wearing a polo shirt and boat shoes. I looked like exactly what I was, a suburbanite lost in the country.
"You want him for eating or eggs?" "Guard duty," I said.
The farmer, let's call him Farmer Dan, stopped wiping his hands. He squinted at me.
A slow grin revealed a missing premolar. "Guard duty, huh?
You got a fox problem?" "I have a neighbor problem," I corrected.
"I need something that scares people. something that makes a grown woman question her life choices." Dan laughed.
It was a dry, raspy sound. Well, son, you don't want the pilgrims.
They're too heavy. You want the Chinese geese?
The weeder geese. See them over there?
He pointed to a pen near the side of the barn. Inside were about a dozen white and brown birds with large knobs on their beaks.
They were standing perfectly still, watching us. They didn't look like birds.
They looked like a street gang assessing a tourist. "Are they mean?"
I asked. "Mean mean?"
Dan spat on the ground. "See that big white one in the middle?
I call him Lucifer. Last week, he chased a FedEx truck down the road.
He don't bite to eat. He bites because he hates you personally.
These birds are loud. They're territorial and they have zero fear of God or man."
"Perfect," I said. "I'll take Lucifer and five of his angriest friends.
You got a cage? I have the back of my Ford Explorer."
Dan shook his head. "You're going to regret that, but all right. $50 a bird."
"Sold." The next hour was a blur of feathers, honking, and sheer physical struggle.
Catching Lucifer was like trying to wrestle a pillowcase full of bricks that could also pinch you. Dan grabbed him by the neck, gently but firmly, and shoved him into a large dog crate I had bought on the way over.
Lucifer hissed. It wasn't a quack.
It was a hiss, like a leaking gas pipe. We managed to get six of them loaded.
Lucifer, a gray one I named Attila. A spotted one I named Brutus.
Two identical noisy ones I named Karen and Ripper. And finally, the smallest, but arguably the craziest one, Fluffy.