When I was a cub reporter in Cheboygan, I had a neighbor who kept a dozen hens. Every day I would  walk over and watch as Weyona sang Methodist hymns. Then, one by one, the hens came running. The songs seemed to make the chickens happy, and they laid countless eggs in return.

A couple years ago, I thought about having chickens of my own. In my yard. In a relatively urban setting.

I didn’t tell anyone. Especially my boyfriend Matt. Still, I harbored fantasies of converting my sizable city lot into a mini farm.

When I looked into it, the ordinance in Ferndale was restrictive, so much so that just a handful of city residents would qualify to raise hens.

I thought this was the end of the road. I kept quiet about it.

Until a couple weeks ago, when Matt and I visited a friend with a farm…