‘Chicken lady' faces legal trouble as birds come flocking in
Kyeland Jackson,
Tribune News Service
Chicken owners from across the Twin Cities have been known to dump fowl on Miranda Meyer's St. Paul doorstep in the middle of the night. Outside her house on Hatch Avenue — yes, St. Paul's 'chicken lady' lives on Hatch Avenue — neighbours stop and watch the birds strut toward feed scattered near Meyer's black hearse. Hens like Sweet Pea, found half-frozen in a bush, ruffle their feathers in a white coop. Meyer's rooster, Jimothy Dean Scrambles, perches on a fence and crows. Minneapolis animal control officials call Meyer, 32, to rehome abandoned chickens. But in her home city, St. Paul animal control has issued citations against her flock, exposing her to legal trouble even as she pursues work she considers to be within her rights as a tribal member.
Meyer is worried that the fowl troubles will worsen this year. 'We're taking hundreds of birds every summer, and it's only getting bigger and bigger,' Meyer said. 'There's so many people who are going into this blind thinking, 'I just want free eggs.''
Meyer started work in what she called the 'the death industry' at 15. After more than a decade of cleaning crime scenes and preparing burials, dealing with death and silence weighed on her. 'It makes you feel not human because then you can't connect with other people,' Meyer said. But Meyer always felt she could connect with animals, and she said the Standing Rock protests a few years ago inspired a change. Meyer is a member of the Ojibwe tribe whose name, Ikwe Niibawi Wiiji Migizi Miigwan, means 'woman who stands with eagle feather.' She said the protests made her think about sustainability, prompting her to adopt three chickens. She quickly found she had a knack for working with the birds.
The goal of the operation she runs from her single-family house, the Balsam Lake Bachelor Flock and Poultry Rehab, is to rehabilitate and return chickens and roosters to owners who pay her what they can afford. The rehab runs through her properties in St. Paul and Balsam Lake, Wis., and she said the goal is to help chicken owners and people who cannot afford eggs, meat and high veterinary bills. When she can't rehabilitate roosters, Meyer drives them to Balsam Lake and releases them on her 40-acre property, or slaughters them to bring meat to neighbours and reservations. Hmong farmers give Meyer leftover vegetables as chicken feed in return for eggs, fertiliser and meat. She donates dozens of fertilised eggs to St. Paul school teachers, who hatch them in class and return the chicks to her. The Minneapolis Police Department and Minneapolis Animal Care and Control began phoning for help with chickens abandoned in cemeteries, parking garages and on the tarmac at Minneapolis–St. Paul International Airport. Meyer said that up to 20 hens and two roosters now stay with her. But at a peak last year, she said she was accepting 30 roosters a week. That ran her afoul of St. Paul Animal Services, which ticketed Meyer last October and again in March for having a rooster and no permit to own chickens. Roosters are prohibited in St. Paul, and a rooster permit in Minneapolis costs $110. Meyer disputes the need for a permit, arguing that the work is within her rights as an Ojibwe tribal member with federal protections.
For St. Paul resident Va Xiong and others, chickens are crucial for religious ceremonies addressing birth, life and death. Xiong, 42, started raising chickens for the first time this year to provide for his family and their ceremonies. Many Hmong people who emigrated to Minnesota brought cultural practices involving chickens. Xiong explined that the birds are considered guides for spirits of the deceased, wards against sickness and vital nutritional support for women giving birth. Many still believe in those customs but turned from tradition to adjust to city laws, returning chickens to farms after ceremonies instead of sacrificing them. But Xiong said St. Paul's restrictions forced him to raise fowl outside the city limits, and he believes residents are being ticketed while holding chickens for similar practices.
'That is why a lot of the Hmong community and Asian communities have these chickens in the city limits, and the city is making it tough for these Asian communities to hold chickens,' Xiong said. He said the permit process can take months. St. Paul Animal Services Manager Molly Lunaris said most applications are approved the same day, but the department is working to streamline the process through an online application that could be available within a year. Lunaris said rules considered burdensome by some exist for the city's health, safety and livability.
'We regularly seek staff and resident input to assess whether our ordinances are current, efficient, and effective, and work to implement changes when necessary,' Lunaris said in a statement. She said the agency is working to move away from criminal citations in favor of administrative actions. Lunaris added that the agency has not seized any birds claimed to be used for religious purposes and would consult with the City Attorney's Office before doing so. Scores of Minnesotans are turning to co-ops and community-supported agriculture shares to save money on eggs. Many more are turning to backyard chicken coops.
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‘Chicken lady' faces legal trouble as birds come flocking in
Kyeland Jackson, Tribune News Service Chicken owners from across the Twin Cities have been known to dump fowl on Miranda Meyer's St. Paul doorstep in the middle of the night. Outside her house on Hatch Avenue — yes, St. Paul's 'chicken lady' lives on Hatch Avenue — neighbours stop and watch the birds strut toward feed scattered near Meyer's black hearse. Hens like Sweet Pea, found half-frozen in a bush, ruffle their feathers in a white coop. Meyer's rooster, Jimothy Dean Scrambles, perches on a fence and crows. Minneapolis animal control officials call Meyer, 32, to rehome abandoned chickens. But in her home city, St. Paul animal control has issued citations against her flock, exposing her to legal trouble even as she pursues work she considers to be within her rights as a tribal member. Meyer is worried that the fowl troubles will worsen this year. 'We're taking hundreds of birds every summer, and it's only getting bigger and bigger,' Meyer said. 'There's so many people who are going into this blind thinking, 'I just want free eggs.'' Meyer started work in what she called the 'the death industry' at 15. After more than a decade of cleaning crime scenes and preparing burials, dealing with death and silence weighed on her. 'It makes you feel not human because then you can't connect with other people,' Meyer said. But Meyer always felt she could connect with animals, and she said the Standing Rock protests a few years ago inspired a change. Meyer is a member of the Ojibwe tribe whose name, Ikwe Niibawi Wiiji Migizi Miigwan, means 'woman who stands with eagle feather.' She said the protests made her think about sustainability, prompting her to adopt three chickens. She quickly found she had a knack for working with the birds. The goal of the operation she runs from her single-family house, the Balsam Lake Bachelor Flock and Poultry Rehab, is to rehabilitate and return chickens and roosters to owners who pay her what they can afford. The rehab runs through her properties in St. Paul and Balsam Lake, Wis., and she said the goal is to help chicken owners and people who cannot afford eggs, meat and high veterinary bills. When she can't rehabilitate roosters, Meyer drives them to Balsam Lake and releases them on her 40-acre property, or slaughters them to bring meat to neighbours and reservations. Hmong farmers give Meyer leftover vegetables as chicken feed in return for eggs, fertiliser and meat. She donates dozens of fertilised eggs to St. Paul school teachers, who hatch them in class and return the chicks to her. The Minneapolis Police Department and Minneapolis Animal Care and Control began phoning for help with chickens abandoned in cemeteries, parking garages and on the tarmac at Minneapolis–St. Paul International Airport. Meyer said that up to 20 hens and two roosters now stay with her. But at a peak last year, she said she was accepting 30 roosters a week. That ran her afoul of St. Paul Animal Services, which ticketed Meyer last October and again in March for having a rooster and no permit to own chickens. Roosters are prohibited in St. Paul, and a rooster permit in Minneapolis costs $110. Meyer disputes the need for a permit, arguing that the work is within her rights as an Ojibwe tribal member with federal protections. For St. Paul resident Va Xiong and others, chickens are crucial for religious ceremonies addressing birth, life and death. Xiong, 42, started raising chickens for the first time this year to provide for his family and their ceremonies. Many Hmong people who emigrated to Minnesota brought cultural practices involving chickens. Xiong explined that the birds are considered guides for spirits of the deceased, wards against sickness and vital nutritional support for women giving birth. Many still believe in those customs but turned from tradition to adjust to city laws, returning chickens to farms after ceremonies instead of sacrificing them. But Xiong said St. Paul's restrictions forced him to raise fowl outside the city limits, and he believes residents are being ticketed while holding chickens for similar practices. 'That is why a lot of the Hmong community and Asian communities have these chickens in the city limits, and the city is making it tough for these Asian communities to hold chickens,' Xiong said. He said the permit process can take months. St. Paul Animal Services Manager Molly Lunaris said most applications are approved the same day, but the department is working to streamline the process through an online application that could be available within a year. Lunaris said rules considered burdensome by some exist for the city's health, safety and livability. 'We regularly seek staff and resident input to assess whether our ordinances are current, efficient, and effective, and work to implement changes when necessary,' Lunaris said in a statement. She said the agency is working to move away from criminal citations in favor of administrative actions. Lunaris added that the agency has not seized any birds claimed to be used for religious purposes and would consult with the City Attorney's Office before doing so. Scores of Minnesotans are turning to co-ops and community-supported agriculture shares to save money on eggs. Many more are turning to backyard chicken coops.
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Sunita Sah, Tribune News Service America has long been celebrated as the land of the free — a place where agency, independence and self-determination are enshrined in our national mythos. Whether idealising the rugged frontiersman or the daring entrepreneur, Americans take pride in the idea of forging their own paths. Yet despite these stated ideals, we often surrender our liberty in surprising ways. Compliance is the act of going along with something — often imposed by a person or system — through reactive or passive obedience. It's vandalising a book on command, going against our better judgment when someone tells us to or administering electric shocks to another person, as in Stanley Milgram's famous experiments. We say yes when we could and should say no. Experiments I've conducted suggest that Americans regularly comply with advice even when they know it is bad. 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This definition, rooted in medicine, highlights that consent is not merely saying 'yes' but making an informed, voluntary decision. Without all five elements, consent cannot exist, and compliance fills the void. Defiance is the flip side of the consent coin — it requires the same five elements to act in alignment with one's values, especially when there is pressure to do otherwise. Defiance is not necessarily loud, bold, violent or angry. It can be the quiet determination to live your life in a way that reflects your values. It's a skill, not a personality trait, that can be learned and practised by anyone. But from an early age, we are taught that compliance is good and defiance is bad. Obedience is ingrained in us before we even realise it. When my son was just a year old, we moved to Pittsburgh, where nursery staff at a daycare encouraged parents to buy Steelers onesies for the babies. I asked, 'What if he's not a Steelers fan?' I'll never forget the look on the carer's face. It immediately made me backtrack: 'Of course, he is a Steelers fan!' The message was clear: we all need to pledge allegiance to this team, and deviation is unthinkable — perhaps even detrimental to the care my son would receive. This seemingly lighthearted anecdote reflects the way Americans thrive on emotional allegiance, whether to a person, leader, team or party. We're often expected to be strongly for or against something without seeing both the positives and negatives of each stance. And in pledging such loyalty, we become more socialised to comply without questioning whether these polarising norms align with our values. One glaring example of compliance masquerading as defiance is voting along party lines out of tradition or allegiance, rather than values. Many voters believe they are acting independently, when in reality, their decisions are dictated by social pressures, emotional attachments or familial expectations. This is also true of 'false defiance,' when someone reflexively votes against their perceived enemy party — an act that reinforces conformity, rather than challenging it. Contrast this with figures such as Republican Liz Cheney, who defied her party to uphold her principles. Her stance came with significant personal and professional costs, but it exemplified values-based defiance: choosing integrity over allegiance. Similarly, Kyrsten Sinema's votes challenged the Democratic Party when she was a member, demonstrating that defiance is not bound by ideology but by acting in alignment with one's values. Social pressure compounds the challenge to be defiant. In my research I have documented a phenomenon I call ' insinuation anxiety,' discomfort toward signalling that someone — particularly an authority figure — might be wrong, biased or untrustworthy. In health care, patients often agree to procedures they don't understand out of deference to doctors; in workplaces, employees remain silent when witnessing unethical behaviour, fearing repercussions. This anxiety traps us in a cycle of compliance even when it is clearly in conflict with our values. The risks of defiance are often highlighted: ostracism, professional consequences or backlash. But the costs of compliance are rarely discussed. Compliance erodes agency, perpetuates inequality and often leads to harmful outcomes, such as silence about unethical practices in workplaces that enable toxic cultures to thrive.
