St. Paul's 'chicken lady' faces legal trouble as birds come flocking in

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 — neighbors 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.'"

When passions hatch

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 neighbors and reservations.

Hmong farmers give Meyer leftover vegetables as chicken feed in return for eggs, fertilizer and meat. She donates dozens of fertilized 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.

Importance in the Hmong community

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 explained 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.

Just 27 people applied for a chicken permit in St. Paul in 2019. That boomed to 62 people in 2020, and 56 the next year. So far this year, at least 29 people have applied for a permit.

Tony Schendel, director of Minneapolis Animal Care and Control, said hundreds of Minneapolitans have chicken permits, and his office receives new applications "almost every day." At least 52 residents applied for a chicken permit this year, compared to 74 permit applications through all of 2024. Schendel said local partners are vital to the work.

"These are folks who have a lot of experience handling chickens. They have a lot of background knowledge and they have a proper setup already where they're able to come in, take the chicken from us, place it and then care for it so it's in a proper environment, and then find it a new home," Schendel said, adding that they receive few complaints about interrupting religious rituals.

One of those partners was Mary Britton Clouse. She co-founded Chicken Run Rescue with her husband from their north Minneapolis home in 2001. They moved to Elko in 2016 after running out of space and funds, but Britton Clouse recently moved back to the Twin Cities. She declined to share her new location for fear people might abandon chickens on her property.

That's a trend that Britton Clouse has noticed in recent years, and she worries that new owners and animal control officials will be unprepared.

"People think that it's OK to take the unwanted roosters and to drive them to remote areas and leave them there," Britton Clouse said, calling that "horribly cruel."

Flying the coop?

The "chicken lady" is tired. Meyer hopes more people support food sovereignty, but said she wants to escape the permit dispute, leave Minnesota, and begin nesting for her first-born son, due this fall. She's considering a homestead in Wisconsin, but wherever she goes, the chickens will flock.

"Honestly if it comes down to my chickens, I ain't getting rid of them at this point. I'm fighting for them, even Woody."

Woody, a chicken known to peck Meyer's legs, clucked in response. "Yeah," Meyer affirmed, "even you!"