How I Built a Coop—and a Love Story—in Berthoud, Colorado

Some men win a woman’s heart with poetry. Others with grand romantic gestures.

I did it with a hammer, a measuring tape, and a quiet but undeniable sense of knowing when something wasn’t square.

It all started with a chicken coop. Or, more specifically, a half-built, poorly-measured, slightly crooked chicken coop that another guy had started.

She had been working on it for a while when I showed up. The frame was there, the bones of something decent, but I could see the problems right away—angles not quite right, gaps that would let in too much wind, a design that might’veworked for a Pinterest photo but not for real birds.

I wasn’t a chicken expert back then. I had no deep wisdom about poultry behaviors and no hard-won lessons about pecking orders or egg production. But I did know how to build things right.

And that other guy?

He didn’t.

So I stepped in, squared my shoulders, and said the four words that would change everything:

"I know better."

She gave me a look. Not a glare, exactly, but something close—a challenge wrapped in curiosity. She wasn’t the kind of woman who just took a man’s word for something. You had to prove yourself.

"You know better, huh?"

I gestured at the coop, letting my hands do the talking. "You ever notice how the boards don’t quite meet here?" I pointed at a gap in the frame, where the wind would slip right through come winter. "That’s going to be a problem."

She pursed her lips. "And?"

I stepped back, giving the whole thing a slow, deliberate once-over. "How many chickens?"

"Twelve," she said.

I exhaled through my nose, nodding. "Yeah. Not enough space. You’re gonna need a bigger coop."

The other guy tensed. I could feel it. But she? She raised an eyebrow and said, "Alright, genius. What do we do?"

Making It Work—Without Tearing It Down

We didn’t start over. That wasn’t necessary.

The bones of the coop were there, and I wasn’t about to disrespect the work she’d already done. Instead, we made it better. We reinforced the frame, squared up the angles, and expanded it.

What started as a 4x8 project meant for twelve birds turned into a 10x10 fortress with room for the inevitable chicken math.

I didn’t know at the time that chickens are like potato chips—you can’t have just a few. We figured we’d stick to a manageable number, but we started adding more somewhere between the second and third trip to pick up feed.

And when you get more chickens? You need more space.

So, a few months later, we built a duck run.

That was my biggest mistake.

The Great Duck Disaster

At first, ducks seemed like a great idea. The idyllic image of them waddling around, quacking in the morning light—it felt right.

Until I realized something.

Ducks are filthy bastards.

Chickens? They scratch, dust, bathe, and do their little routines. Sure, They can be messy, but they have some dignity.

Ducks? They have none.

I built that run carefully, ensuring they had enough space, a good enclosure, and, most importantly, a pond.

That pond? A mistake.

It was supposed to be a clean, peaceful little water source. Maybe with some pretty stones around it. Something nice.

It became a festering pit of duck filth.

They didn’t just swim in it. They bathed, pooped, and somehow managed to turn it into the dirtiest, most vile body of water I’d ever seen.

One day, I walked outside to check on things, and one of the ducks was  standing in the pond, drinking its filth like it was the nectar of life.

That was the moment. The exact second when I thought:

"I hate ducks."

But we had them now. And, like chickens, ducks multiply.

So we adjusted. Again.

Lessons in Chickening (and Love)

We learned together.

I wasn’t a chicken expert at the start, but I became one by necessity over time.

We let the birds free-range, and it worked for a while. They had the space, the bugs to eat, the open air. But eventually, predators started noticing. That led to another expansion—a larger, more secure run.

Every step of the way, I realized something: chickens don’t just teach you about poultry. They teach you about patience. About planning. About how nothing is ever really finished—because the moment you think you’ve got it all figured out, you find a reason to build something bigger.

And her?

She saw me show up. Not just for the coop but for everything. I wasn’t the guy who talked big and disappeared when the work got real. I was the guy who stayed, built alongside her, and made things stronger instead of tearing them down.

And that’s what mattered.

The Coop That Built Us

Looking back now, I realize that coop wasn’t just a coop.

It was a test.

Of how well we worked together.

Of whether I was the kind of man who fixed things instead of just pointing out the problems.

Of whether or not I belonged in her world.

And I did.

Because when the coop was finished, the birds had settled in, and the ducks had successfully turned their pond into a swamp of nightmares, she looked at me, smirked, and said:

"Alright. Maybe you do know better."

And that?

That’s when I knew.

I had built something that mattered.

Not just a coop.

Not just a homestead.

But a future.