Steve's Chicken Lament

Long ago our next-door neighbor, Steve, became the talk of the circle when he embarked on an ambitious chicken-keeping adventure. Early on Saturday morning, the rhythmic sound of hammering echoed across the yards as Steve constructed an impressively long chicken run beside his pole barn. With meticulous care, he secured wooden posts and beams with a sturdy wire mesh covering the entire sanctuary for his new feathered friends. As the sun dipped below the horizon, he proudly introduced five lively chickens, each with its own personality and flair. Nestled inside their cozy coop, the chickens quickly made themselves at home, their cheerful clucks filling the air.

The neighbors lived peacefully with the confined flock, but after a few weeks Steve declared that his run was not sufficient for his feathery friends. He opened the door to the coop and allowed his feathery friends to surround him as he worked on his lawn. The birds strutted and pecked around his flower beds and bushes, much to the amusement of the Corby Circle residents. Once, I witnessed Steve passed out in his front yard with two fat chickens perched on his rotund belly. It was indeed a sight to behold.

Eventually, Steve's property also became too small for the feisty flock of chickens. The feathered creatures took to darting across the neatly trimmed lawns of the neighborhood. The plucky birds became notorious for uprooting flowerbeds and pecking at anything that resembled a snack, like our newly spread grass seed. Unsurprisingly, the clucking commotion ruffled many feathers, leading to a cacophony of complaints and exasperated glares from residents who had once enjoyed pristine peace. Captivated by the whimsy of his unlikely pets, Steve, often found with a whisky coke in his hand, remained oblivious to the chaos he had unleashed. He insisted that his 'free-range philosophy' brought joy and charm to our boring suburban lives. The chickens, with their carefree clucks and antics, caused tempers to flare as we longed for our once peaceful, fowl-free existence.

One day, the unexpected arrival of animal control officers sent Steve into a drunken frenzy. Since I am afraid of chickens, I had complained to Steve on several occasions after I had found them rummaging through my flower beds, clucking loudly as if they owned the place. My repeated attempts to chase them back home became a daily routine, one where I wielded a broom more like a sword than a gardening tool. This convinced him that I had called the authorities, so he stormed from door to door in a fervent quest for answers. His anger was palpable as he knocked assertively, demanding to know who had the audacity to ruin his peaceful coexistence with his beloved chickens. As each neighbor declared their innocence, he would turn to point at my house proclaiming, “That bitch Tara called them!” Several neighbors called me to discuss the absurdity of the situation as we also peered out our windows to watch the drama unfold. Presently, officers began collecting the birds, and we could hear Steve's laments about the injustice he felt. He threw himself onto the grass in his yard sobbing while begging the authorities to change their minds.

Ultimately the police were called in to assist the animal control officers, and things took an unexpected turn. Steve drunkenly trotted across the street and stood in my front yard yelling accusations and claiming I was "out to get his beloved cluckers." As he insisted I was "too chicken" to come out and fight, the situation escalated to a neighborhood spectacle.

My partner Ericka, dressed in combat boots, faded athletic shorts, and a tank top, marched out to confront Steve. She met him in front of our house, her eyes narrowed as she stood up to Steve, who seemed taken aback by her appearance. "Tara did not call animal control!" she declared, her voice steady and filled with conviction. She fiercely challenged Steve to stop his accusations and stand down. The tension in the air was palpable, heavy with the weight of misunderstandings that had spiraled out of control, but she was a force of nature, willing to fight for what was right. Steve eventually backed down and stumbled home to plea for the freedom of his flock.

The police managed to calm Steve down before giving him a firm warning to keep his chickens secured in their run. They reminded him that his unruly chickens were a disturbance to the neighborhood and noted that this would be the last time they'd intervene on his behalf. They urged Steve to keep his feathered friends confined.

Ericka and I watched with a mix of relief and frustration as the chickens were placed back in their run and the authorities left the property. The air had settled, but the tension in the evening was palpable as Steve trudged towards his house, muttering under his breath about neighbors betraying him. The peace we once took for granted had been shattered, and his drunken stubbornness ensured that things would never return to the way they were before.

In the following weeks, the once-vibrant chatter of Steve's chickens faded into the background, confined to their run as he reluctantly followed the officer's orders. While the neighborhood returned to its tranquil state, we couldn't help but notice the emptiness of Steve's yard. His resentment toward us bubbled over, and he gradually became a shadow of his former self. Once the life of the block, he was now a shadow lurking behind closed curtains.

Time passed, leaving us to reflect on what had been lost. We would see him from time to time, a forlorn figure on his property, glaring at us chicken haters. Although we exchanged the occasional word, I knew our friendship had been irreparably damaged by anger and alcohol. The silence stretched wide between us like an insurmountable chasm; the neighborhood's silent peace replaced by grudging solemnity.