Oh Brother...

"I want chickens." My brother pronounced one day, as I was mid-bite in a peanut butter sandwich.

I set down my sandwich.

"You mean you want chicken?" I asked quizzically, not quite understanding what he was saying.

"No chickens. The animals." He replied seriously.

I was perplexed. "To eat or keep as pets?"

"As creatures to help promote self-sustainable living." He replied, casually flipping through a his "Hobby Farms" magazine.

I didn't understand a word of what he was saying, nor was I sure that I wanted to. What could cause my brother to go from a science-obsessed, cooking, brainiac brother to be a.... farmer?

"Um... okay. Well, I guess you could ask Mom or Dad." I suggested doubtfully.

I thought that would be the end of my brother and his chicken obsession, but it was only the beginning. Not long after that first conversation I started finding random catalogues scattered around the house that sold chicken coops and feed. My brother soon became a chicken encyclopedia, never talking about anything but chickens. It was de-ja-vu all over again. Just a few months ago he had gone through a "Bee-keeping phase", even though his one greatest fear in life was being stung by bees (go figure). Now he was in his 'chicken keeping phase', even though I'd never seen him interested in them before.

"Do you like Rhode Island Reds or Plymouth Rocks better?" He asked.

To me, both of them sounded more like tourist destinations in the Northwest, so I answered "Plymouth Rock", which seemed to satisfy him.

"Bantams or regular sized?" He asked me later.

"Er... Bantams" I replied distractedly. I didn't know what Bantams were. All I knew was that my 10-year-old soccer league had been called "bantams."

My brother hounded my parents worst of all. Asking them to petition the city to allow chickens, to buy him a new, ergonomic chicken home called an 'eglu', and ranting off statistics. He created multiple Powerpoints about the benefits of keeping chickens and eating fresh eggs, and often compared their messes to that of our 2 parakeets.

I couldn't really figure out what the point of keeping chickens were. They weren't affectionate, they were messy, and they lay eggs. I figured that Colin probably only wanted them so that he could create omelets with fresh eggs.

The thought of eating eggs from backyard chickens disgusted me. So did the thought of cutting off the head and eating the meat. Did you know that a chicken once lived 18 months without its head? It's true. If my parents didn't crush this chicken idea, then I would myself.

It was about a month later, after my brother dropped another line at the dinner table saying "when we get chickens...", my parents put their fists down.

"We're NOT getting chickens." My dad said firmly, setting his forkful of lasagna down with a crash.

"B-but..." My brother stuttered, the wheels turning in his head for a statistical retort.

"We lived in the city. End of story. No. Nada." My dad cut him off.

We all held our breaths, waiting for a retort but none came. Could it be really over?

To make up for the brutal end of the chicken obsession my parents bought my brother other chicken things. They bought him a pillowcase with a chicken on it, a rooster alarm clock, and started making farm-fresh organic, scrambled eggs more often. Although none of it could really replace a real chicken, I think it helped pacify him... at least until the next obsession came.