I'm officially a poulterer … is that a word?

I went down to the village clerk’s office today to get my chicken permit. Apparently chickens aren’t a popular pet in E.R. as they had some trouble finding the right forms. They don’t get much call to fill out permits for residents to raise poultry (gee, can’t imagine why not?) so they had to dig for the correct paperwork. When I asked if I was the only one in town with chickens, they said, “You are now.” Apparently someone else had chickens and now they don’t.

(I wonder if it was my old neighbor Roberto. He had chickens – and at least one rooster – in his garage. I remember the first time I heard the “cock a doodle doo!” in the morning. Like at 5 in the morning. I rolled over and asked David, “Did I just hear a rooster, or am I going crazy?” Well, we all know the answer to that question now, don’t we? But I digress.)

While I ran and got cash at the ATM (I always forget I can’t use a credit card at the village office) they filled out my license to be a poulterer. To have poultry. Whatever. I can now officially have six chickens in my residence. Well, not in my residence. At my residence. You know what I mean.

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