The Origin Story
My husband’s first hard rule was simple.
“No chickens.”
That was the line in the sand. No feathers. No clucking. No fluffy butts running around like they pay the mortgage.
So naturally, a few years later, I found myself planning a small army of peacocks.
Because if there is one thing I respect, it is the precise wording of a rule.
The “No Chickens” Clause
To be fair, he had a point.
I had raised chickens and ducks almost thirty years ago. When I remarried and moved out to our property, I floated the idea again.
“How about chickens?” I asked, all casual. Like I wasn’t already mentally designing a coop.
“No chickens,” he said. “Predators will eat them out here anyway.”
He was not wrong. We live in an area where everything has teeth, claws, or both. Chickens are basically crunchy snacks in feathered jackets.
He also did not love the idea of a coop. Coops need cleaning. Coops smell. Coops are one more thing on the chore list.
So the terms were clear:
No chickens.
No coop to clean.
No extra work for him.
But here’s the thing about rules.
He did not say “No birds.”
He did not say “No poultry.”
He did not say “No ridiculous feathered drama queens with the intelligence of a concussed toddler.”
He said “No chickens.”
And that, Your Honor, is where the loophole opened.
The Moment Peacocks Entered The Chat
Fast forward eight years.
After almost a decade on the property, I started to feel that itch. I wanted the ranch to feel more like mine. Less practical. More “Why is that bird screeching at the sky?”
Then my friend Marley casually dropped a gift into my lap.
“I need to pick up some peachicks this spring,” she said. “I’m adding to my free range peafowl.”
Peafowl.
Not a chicken. Not by definition.
My husband is a definitions guy. If the dictionary says it is something different, he will respect it. Even if it still poops on his land.
So I started reading.
Peafowl roost in trees at night, like guineas. Safer from predators.
They can free range. No coop. No coop also means no coop cleaning.
When they free range, they get a lot of food from the land. Bugs, plants, whatever they find. They are not totally dependent on you.
They solved almost every single one of his objections.
Best of all, they were very clearly not chickens.
It was like the universe said, “Here. Have a loophole with feathers.”
Operation Peacock
At this point, I could have walked away like a sane person.
Instead, I launched Operation Peacock.
For the next two months, I read everything I could find. Care. Feeding. Health. How far they wander. How loud they scream. How to keep them alive.
How to keep your marriage alive after buying them.
I talked to my parents, who live next door. They needed to know about the possible noise, and I knew I might need help if I was traveling.
Nothing says “Can you grab my mail?” like “Also please feed the giant screeching birds while I’m gone.”
Marley and I found a breeder about an hour away and lined up some chicks for June.
The timing was set. The logistics were handled. The support team was briefed. The research was done.
Everything was in place.
Except one tiny missing piece.
I had not told my husband.
Details.
The Pitch Meeting
I waited for the right moment.
This was not a “by the way” conversation. This was a “let me present my 37-point plan and hope you don’t notice I’ve already emotionally committed” conversation.
When the window opened, I went for it.
I laid everything out. What peafowl are. How they live. Why they’re safer from predators. How they don’t need a coop. How they free range and eat from the land. How I would handle their care. How I had already looped in my parents.
Every concern he had ever raised about chickens, I answered before he could say it out loud.
I was sweating, but I looked calm.
Probably.
Then I brought out the big line.
“Okay. This is your one chance. If you say no, I will not do it. If you say yes, I want to move forward.”
Then I shut up.
This was the hardest part. I am not a shut-up-and-wait person. I am a fill-the-silence-with-more-arguments person.
But I waited.
He thought for a moment.
“Alright,” he said. “Sounds like you thought this out.”
Out loud, I said, “Okay, great.”
In my head, I was already naming peachicks.
And that is how my peafowl adventures began.
If you need me, I’ll be exploiting loopholes and googling “are peacocks harder than chickens or have I made a terrible mistake.”