We Can't Define a Kikiriki with Opinions Alone

The more I work with Kikirikis, the more I find myself asking a simple question:

What actually makes a Kikiriki...a Kikiriki?

That sounds like it should have an easy answer. It doesn't.

Everyone seems to have one. Some people will tell you it's all about the bloodline. Others say it's the breeder. Some point to Puerto Rico. Some point to a mentor. Others will simply say, "I know one when I see one."

The scientist in me isn't satisfied with that answer.

Please don't misunderstand me - I think the stories matter. I think the long-time breeders matter. I think the history matters. In fact, I think preserving those stories is incredibly important because without them, we lose pieces of the breed's history that can never be replaced.

But stories and observations are only one kind of evidence.

They're qualitative.

Wait...what does that even mean?

One thing I learned while earning my biology degrees is that there are different kinds of data.

Qualitative data describes something.

"This bird has very short legs."

"She's tiny."

"That one has the right look."

Those are observations, and they're valuable. Every scientific investigation starts with someone noticing something interesting.

Quantitative data is different.

Instead of saying the legs are short, we measure them.

Instead of saying the bird is tiny, we weigh it.

Instead of saying it "looks right," we start asking questions like:

• How much does it weigh?

• How long is the tarsus?

• What's the body length?

• How do those measurements compare to hundreds of other birds?

That's when opinions begin turning into evidence.

Expert opinion isn't the finish line.

One thing I hope readers understand is that this isn't an argument against experienced breeders.

Far from it.

Experienced breeders are often the reason scientists know where to begin looking.

They've spent years—even decades—observing these birds.

Their knowledge has enormous value.

But science asks one more question.

Can we measure what they're seeing?

That's not disrespect.

That's actually one of the greatest compliments you can give an observation. It's saying, "This is important enough that I want to test it."

Biology doesn't work in absolutes.

One thing that has surprised me is how often people expect there to be one magical number that defines a Kikiriki.

Nature doesn't work that way.

Living things vary.

That's normal.

That's healthy.

You can take a group of full siblings from the same parents and they'll differ in weight, height, leg length, feather quality—even personality.

Why would we expect every authentic Kikiriki to be exactly the same?

We shouldn't.

Instead of searching for one perfect number, we should be looking for a range.

That's how biology works.

The biggest mistake we can make is cherry-picking.

Imagine someone wanted to describe the average height of humans.

Would they only measure NBA players?

Of course not.

Or imagine someone wanted to describe Angus cattle.

Would they only measure the Grand Champion at the livestock show?

Again, no.

So why would we define a breed by measuring only its absolute best examples?

That's called cherry-picking data.

Science doesn't work that way.

If we're serious about understanding Kikirikis, then we need measurements from all kinds of birds.

The exceptional ones.

The average ones.

The awkward ones.

The birds that make us scratch our heads.

Even the outliers.

Especially the outliers.

Because sometimes an outlier is simply an error.

Sometimes it's genetics.

Sometimes it's nutrition.

Sometimes it tells us something we've never considered before.

You don't know until you collect the data.

This is where graphs become more honest than opinions.

One of the things I hope to start sharing over time is population data.

Not just one bird.

Not just my favorite bird.

Not just someone's trophy bird.

All of them.

Imagine plotting hundreds of Kikirikis on a graph.

Weight on one axis.

Leg length on the other.

Now imagine those dots beginning to cluster together.

That's exciting.

Because suddenly we aren't arguing over opinions anymore.

We're looking at patterns.

Maybe true micro Kikirikis consistently fall within a certain relationship between body weight and leg length.

Maybe they don't.

Maybe there are multiple populations currently being called Kikirikis.

I honestly don't know yet.

That's exactly why we measure.

History deserves evidence—not replacement.

One concern I've seen is the idea that collecting measurements somehow replaces the historical knowledge of Puerto Rican breeders.

I don't see it that way.

I see the two working together.

The historical accounts tell us what experienced breeders observed.

The measurements tell us how consistently those observations appear across an entire population.

Those aren't competing ideas.

They're partners.

Another thought I've had...

I've also noticed something else happening, and I don't think it's unique to Kikirikis.

People sometimes act as though a breed belongs to a particular person or a particular group of people.

That's simply not how breeds work.

Let's use one that's close to my own family history.

I'm proudly of Scottish heritage.

Angus cattle originated in Scotland.

Yet Texans raise Angus cattle.

Australians raise Angus cattle.

Canadians raise Angus cattle.

No one tells a Texas rancher, "You can't call that Angus because you aren't Scottish."

That would sound ridiculous.

The breed's history belongs to Scotland.

The breed itself belongs to everyone willing to preserve it responsibly.

I think Kikirikis deserve the same perspective.

Puerto Rico absolutely deserves recognition for preserving and developing this remarkable breed.

That history should always be acknowledged.

But acknowledging that history doesn't mean someone outside Puerto Rico cannot study the breed, collect data, ask questions, publish findings, or contribute to its future.

Science has never worked that way.

My mentor was science.

People sometimes tell me I shouldn't be writing about Kikirikis because I'm new, or because I'm not Puerto Rican, or because I didn't learn from the "right" person.

The funny thing is...I had mentors too.

I spent years studying biology.

I studied genetics.

I studied scientific methodology.

I spent countless hours learning how to ask good questions without assuming I already knew the answers.

Those lessons came from professors, researchers, published literature, and a university that taught me something I'll never forget:

Good science doesn't care who asks the question.

It only cares whether the evidence supports the answer.

That's the approach I want this blog to take.

Not because I think I have all the answers.

Quite the opposite.

Because I don't.

And the only way we'll ever get closer to those answers is by collecting good data, being transparent about what we find, and letting the evidence guide the conversation.

I think that's something every breeder - regardless of where they live - can appreciate.