Chickens.

I am definitely going to restrict the movement of my avian neighbors.  As soon as I let them out in the morning, they run like hell for my house and stand as close to the door as they can get for hours and stare at me while I try to get anything done.
I tried to distract them by putting up a large 3 sided mirror where they could admire themselves instead of insisting that I admire them all the time, but after about 15 minutes they figure out that it is only a reflection.
If you think you can work under the supervision of a chicken, think again.  They are powerful thought transfer masters.  They let me know what they think of my work.
"Not so great.  Why don't you add some more red to that?"
"Why don't any of your landscapes have figures in them?  Can't you draw people?"
This is why there is such a glut of chickenalia infesting ETSY.  People who have decided it would be a good thing to have fresh eggs for breakfast try to get to work in the morning after stealing and eating someone's potential children have to endure the accusing looks of the slave Avians.
It becomes unavoidable that watercolors, oils, fiber art and welding is given over to images of chickens.  You can't ignore what is in front of you, and if you live near chickens they always are; unless they are following you, and I can't recommend against that strongly enough if a rooster is involved.
It is clear.  If I am going to get any landscapes painted that don't have chickens in them, or portraits of humans that look less like chickens, a fence is needed.

The more things change...

There is a deceptive calm in having a rooster who is not a mean son of a bitch.  I was not counting on Spring, though, and once again, I have a giant Maran rampaging out of the coop in the morning, jumping circles around the hens and fixing me with one steely eye.  I don't need to understand Avian to know what he wants.  Now that the temperature has risen enough that protests begin at dawn I know enough to realize that I had better show up at that coop door with a handful of grapes and lettuce if I know what is good for me.
I had this idea that a rhythm had been established, harmony embraced and detente reached over the winter.  People were happy to sit on the perch near the heated water and the display of grain choices waiting for the assured delivery of nuts, berries and other treats.
Now I am being reminded, usually before dawn, that I am expected to see to the needs of my Avian neighbors, that is if I want their cooperation in the area of tick control.
Buck is willing to climb over the snow bank, skate over the ice flow and chase the cat in order to get to the picnic table where he stands and tries to jump up to the wild bird's feeder.
The squirrels stay away when he is patrolling the area, so I guess I should be grateful, but it's going to take a lot of clorox to make that picnic table useable again.
This Buck, in his second incarnation, has all the beauty of himself before, but none of the desire to strip the flesh off my legs.  I appreciate this, but I am not certain I trust it.  He has begun to make the same noises, in the same key, telling the girls of an intruder's approach, gurgling happily over finding some horrible piece of trash in the yard to eat, or letting me know what he thinks of having to share the path with humans.  I had better not, in my optimism think that I can get away with not fencing in the plants and flowers I hope to keep and have the use of this season, there's only so much that may be expected from a chicken.  They may not fly, but they remember flight.   For insecurity, there's nothing to beat a hostage who remembers his freedom.