In this case, the chicken came long before the egg.

Actually, 50 of them, packed in a small box that arrived at our rural post office well before dawn on a snowy April morning.

The postal worker who called around 5:30 a.m. sounded irritated and suggested I get down there as soon as possible. When postal service employees sound edgy, it's a good idea to oblige them. I slid down an icy hill, grabbed the chickens and ran back home to pop them in a heated brooder.

In hindsight, I probably should have gone back to sleep.

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FEATHERED FRIENDS

Many people will tell you that chickens are fun to raise.

Then again, many people will lie.

I listened to their constant peep-peep-peep for six weeks and rearranged my bathroom to fit their brooder. After three weeks, they began exploding from the brooder like quail when I opened it to feed them. I'd chase them through the bathroom, capturing them before my kitten could make their acquaintance.

While they grew and peeped and ate a $20 bag of organic feed every week, I built a shelter outside. For a month, I hammered, sawed, nailed and stapled a 12-by-12 foot, wood-and-chicken-wire frame to keep the peeps inside and predators outside. I built a 16-by-8 foot barn and attached a second, 16-by-12 foot chicken run to it.

I hoped they would be grateful; instead, they pecked savagely at my hands when I fed them.

They were certainly pretty. I had 25 New Hampshire Reds, a heavy breed that's better suited to meat than egg-laying. And I had another 25 Araucanas, beautiful hens with distinctive black-and-gold feathers. The Araucanas are best known for laying blue and green eggs. I described them to friends, but struggled with a size description until it occurred to me: The baby chickens were about the size of, yes, an egg.

Unfortunately, their attitudes were about the size of King Kong after a three-day bender. They were belligerent as hell, and I grew tired of hearing them complain. I put a box of Kentucky Fried Chicken on the brooder to remind them of the less-fortunate; they pecked at that, too.

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PAMPERED PEEPS

I finally finished the chicken run. On a warm day in late May, I picked up one of the louder, feistier birds, took it outside, and deposited it gently on the ground in the chicken run. It looked around, screamed -- and then fell over, dead.

Things went much better for the remaining 40 chickens; no one else died, and I was very happy to have my bathroom back, even if it did take a few weeks to clean out all the chicken dust and get the smell of chicken, um, manure removed.

I fed them and watered them throughout the summer. I resisted the urge to sic the border collies on them when they escaped from the run and fled into the woods. I slipped and fell on my butt in chicken, um, manure after it rained. I built a small roost that doubled as a shade on hot days. I spent $20 every week on organic feed and $10 every week on a bag of whole corn, the chicken equivalent of Snickers bars. We chased off foxes, and one memorable morning, a black bear came to visit. The chickens grew big, fat and happy.

But they did not lay eggs. I was not happy.

Chickens generally don't lay until they're 22 weeks old. I figured I'd wake up on Sept. 16 and have eggs. I was wrong. I gave them a week. Still nothing. Then I read that chickens need 14 hours of sunlight to lay eggs. We were at 12 hours of sunlight and dropping, so I put a light in the chicken coop and left it on until 10 p.m. every night for a week.

Still no eggs.

Maybe it was a nutritional issue. I started diverting food from the compost file; watermelon rinds and cantaloupe went into the coop. They loved it, but still no eggs. I picked old, mushy apples from the side of the road and tossed them into the coop. They loved that, too, but not enough to give me eggs. I gave them pulverized oyster shells, and they pecked me again.

My wife tried to give fate a nudge, weaving an old-time Appalachian egg basket that could easily hold five dozen eggs. No luck. I surfed the Web, looking for advice from poultry sages. No luck there, either. It seems there have been only two famous chicken farmers in history: Heinrich Himmler and Colonel Sanders. Neither one seemed like a good role model.

Clearly, a stern message needed to be sent. Besides, the roosters had started crowing earlier every morning, starting around 5 a.m. and progressing backward. And someone at the hatchery had obviously been a little reckless in examining the wee little parts of baby chickens; I had a good half-dozen more roosters than I'd ordered.

So late last week, I sat on the front porch and sharpened the cleaver. I put two nails about an inch apart in a log by the coop. I found a good piece of clothesline to use to hang a chicken carcass while it drained. I retrieved an old stockpot for scalding and needle-nosed pliers for tough feathers. And I sent my 13-year-old son to water the chickens and select a victim.

He returned, instead, with a small, brown egg.

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NOT EXACTLY CHICKEN FEED

Was it worth it?

The chickens cost $75. The coop was another $750 in materials, and the run was built for $250. I've spent about $500 on organic feed and corn. Feeders, water tanks, coop lighting and nutritional supplements cost another $250. I've spent another $150 on netting to keep hawks and owls at bay, and $25 on mulch hay for cold nights.

So all told, my first egg cost $2,000. Not exactly chicken feed.

Of course, I expect that price to drop. If I keep the coop lights on, I'll have about two dozen eggs per day in another month. So assuming a dozen free-range, organic eggs continue to sell for $4 per dozen, I could break even about this time next year.

At which point, I believe I'll get a cow.

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asap contributor Frank Bass is a member of the AP's multimedia investigative team in Washington D.C.

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