In the fall I went and did it. I went and got some chickens. Call me a trend-chaser if you will, but I am in love with these birds. My daughter gave them the silliest names: Omelet, Poached, and Pantaloons, so called because she is a black cochin with the most amazing set of feathered legs you’ve ever seen. The girls provide us not only with delicious eggs with marigold yolks but also a fascinating glimpse into the mind of a chicken. Sure, bird brains can be pretty simple, but they are also surprising. These hens know us. They know each of our three cats. They know the two dogs. They know each other. And they have distinct personalities. Poached is on top of the pecking order. From the get-go all she cared about was eating, and she began laying within the first week. Omelet is Poached’s hench-hen. She sounds the alarm every morning at 8:30, marching back and forth clucking loudly as Poached lays her egg. Wherever Poached goes, Omelet goes. Pantaloons is shy, roosting alone on her side of the stick. She looks like a roadrunner as she runs away with her feathered legs flying. She and our newest kitten get into back-and-forth battles, taking turns chasing each other around the yard. My experience with these birds has solidified one thing for me — factory chickens must comprehend the misery and pain of their situation, which makes me grateful for farmers who raise animals with respect, like the ones we profile in Dirt. —Stephanie Barna

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