The chickens have turned one year old, which means that they’re officially hens rather than chicks or pullets.

One thing I’m often asked is whether we’re going to eat them when they’re done with the bulk of their laying. A year ago I would have said yes. Now, though, I know that we’re going to be running a home for geriatric chickens. I’ve gone soft. The chickens function the same way cats do in that one xkcd comic. “Who’s a chicken? Who’s a good little chicken? You are! Yes you are!”