I grew up on seven acres of land in northern California... up by the vineyards in Napa Valley. It was a gorgeous area. We had cows, horses, sheep, pigmy goats, a dog and a cat. But, did I milk the cows? No. Ride the horses? Once in a while... not really. I did help sheer the sheep. [In this instance, "help" means I stood outside the chain-link fence and watched my brothers and dad wrestle these dumb animals to the ground while I sucked on a lollipop and told them "you missed a spot." I was the little smarty pants, 8-year-old. Really helpful.]
Then, my family moved to Utah. In an effort to stay in touch with our farming roots, my dad built a large shed with a lean-to as a chicken coop. Then, he went to IFA [local farming goods distributor... just a convenient five minutes from our house] one spring morning and purchased six chickens. He was ready for those six chicks and knew everything he needed to take care of them.
He did, however, give me and my sister the following two responsibilities in helping him take care of the chickens:
1. Collect eggs everyday [Wearing a bonnet and apron while collecting the eggs in a white whicker basket was mandatory] [That was me being sarcastic...]
2. Name the chickens. Want to know what my sister and I named them?
Chicken #2: BBQ
Chicken #3: Grilled
Chicken #4: Sweet n' Sour
Chicken #5: Fried
Chicken #6: Teriyaki
[Yes, we really did give them those names.]