They have a heated greenhouse with custom perches. Cameras. Heaters. A dedicated pen. A yard full of bugs and a woman who will hand-deliver mealworms like room service.

They chose the 92-year-old neighbor’s porch.

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How It Started

The routine was working. Days out on the property, nights locked up safe in the greenhouse. Semi-free-range. Controlled. Responsible.

A few weeks ago, I started noticing the flock wandering a little farther than usual. Then a lot farther. Then in one very specific direction.

Every day. Same direction. Like they had a reservation.

At first, the neighbor thought it was charming. Who wouldn’t? Four gorgeous peafowl showing up to visit. It’s a novelty. It’s interesting. It’s a great story to tell at dinner.

Then they started pooping on his porch.

The charm wore off fast.

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The 92-Year-Old and the Garden Hose

Our neighbor is 92 years old. I’ve known him my whole life. He is genuinely one of the nicest people you will ever meet.

But even the nicest man on earth has limits, and four peacocks treating his porch like a rest stop found them.

He got the hose.

I was not there to witness this, but I got the report.

Here’s the thing about peafowl and a garden hose: they do not care.

They moved just out of spray range.

Then they stood there. Watching.

Like it was a show.

Like a 92-year-old man spraying water in their general direction was the most entertaining thing that had happened all week. Which, to be fair, it probably was.

This is what I’m dealing with.

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The Ringleader

I blame Leia.

I have cameras. I have footage. I have evidence.

Every morning, Leia is the first one to jump the gate. Not wander past it. Not test it. Jump it with purpose — like she has somewhere to be and that somewhere is not here.

Then she beelines for the neighbor’s property.

And everyone follows.

Han. Morpheus. Neo. Single file. Like she sent a group text and they all agreed on a destination without consulting me.

When Leia was little, she seemed like the worrier. The nervous one. The hen who fussed over everything like she was concerned about everyone’s wellbeing.

She was not concerned about everyone’s wellbeing.

She was managing everyone’s wellbeing. There’s a difference.

What looked like worry was strategy. What looked like fussing was control. And Han — who, bless him, has never had an original thought that wasn’t about food — has been taking direction from her since day one without realizing it.

She is the smartest bird on this property.

And right now, that is not working in my favor.

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The Night They Didn’t Come Home

Last night, I tried to get them back.

I called. I bribed. I stood at the neighbor’s driveway doing the things you do when you are a grown woman trying to convince four birds that home is better than wherever they currently are.

They were not convinced.

They looked at me. They looked at each other. They looked at the trees.

We live here now.

All four ignored me. And instead of their nice, warm, locked greenhouse — the one I built for them, the one with perches and heaters and everything a reasonable bird could want — they spent the night in the trees at the neighbor’s property.

Not on our property. Not in our trees. Not even close.

Acres away from home.

So much for semi-free-range.

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The Morning Search

This morning, I did what every responsible bird owner does when four peafowl have decided to relocate without filing a forwarding address.

I went looking.

It was 7:30 a.m. and 32 degrees.

I hiked over three properties. Down the slope to the lake. Back up. Calling the whole way.

Nothing.

No birds. No sound. No response.

Then the neighbor called. They’d seen them heading one property further. Away from us.

Because why would they make this easy.

So I hiked over. Found all four on the wrong side of a fence.

Here’s a thing about peacocks and fences: when they are determined and organized, they fly right over. When they’re scattered and confused, a fence becomes an impassable barrier. There is no in-between. A peacock is either a fighter jet or a chicken who forgot how legs work.

I got the attention of Morpheus and Neo first. I had food. They were hungry. They followed me home like nothing had happened and walked straight into the greenhouse.

Two down. Two to go.

The older two usually follow the younger ones. So I dangled food in front of Han and Leia, got them halfway home —

And then Han stopped.

He looked left. He looked right. He looked behind him.

Two birds. There should be four. Something was wrong.

They were not at the neighbor’s. They were locked in the greenhouse. But Han didn’t know that. Han is not a details guy. Once he decided the flock was incomplete, he turned around.

Leia didn’t hesitate. She was already walking.

Back to the neighbor’s.

Great.

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The Part Where I’m Writing This From the Middle of a Crisis

I am writing this from my kitchen.

The younger two are locked in the greenhouse. The older two are at the neighbor’s house, doing whatever it is they do over there that is apparently so much more interesting than anything I have to offer.

My current plan involves finding a video of their alarm honk — the one they use to locate each other — and playing it from our property to see if that will pull them home.

I have not tried this yet.

I have no idea if it will work.

But beyond that, it’s time for a new plan. A real one. A permanent pen. Something Leia cannot jump, charm, or strategize her way out of every morning.

Because right now, the routine is broken. The pattern has been set. Leia knows where she wants to go, and she has successfully convinced the entire flock that the neighbor’s house is the better option.

I have to break that pattern before the nicest 92-year-old man I’ve ever known gets creative with his next deterrent. He won’t hurt them. But I would not put it past him to engineer something.

Update: I just got a call from the neighbor. Han and Leia are sleeping on his porch.

Not in a tree. Not in a field. On his porch.

Like guests who have decided checkout is optional.

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Update #2: The miracle came sideways.

The next evening, the neighbor’s visiting daughter happened to show me a video she’d taken that morning — all four birds in the trees, calling to each other. That sound. The honk they use to find each other when the flock is split.

I played it from my phone.

Han and Leia’s heads snapped up like someone had said their names.

I walked. I played the calls. They followed. All the way home. Into the greenhouse. Doors shut.

The most stressful 24 hours I have had with these birds, ended by me silently begging birds to walk home with cell phone video.

Everyone is home. Everyone is safe. Everyone is grounded until further notice.

Now comes the hard part and it involves another plan.