I’ve mentioned how Calvin and his dad would sit watching the chickens’ antics. The high point of that came when we let the young birds out of their fenced chicken yard and onto the back lawn’s lush grass. They’d been studying the grass from their enclosure, snapping off random strands that could be reached through the wire. But now the gate was open; they could boldly go where no chicken had before (at least in this flock).

We sat back at a distance to see which one would bravely step out into the unknown. All of the young birds crowded just inside the gate, jostling, clucking.

Then, one of them, whether more assertive than the rest or just thrust forward by fate, seemed about to take the step.

That’s when Calvin, entranced, shouted, "You can do it, Bravey!" And, as if his encouragement was all that had been lacking, the new-named Bravey hopped across the threshold. Soon two-dozen chickens, brown, red, gold, and white, were spreading out across the carpet of green. It was a glory to watch, and almost too much for Blue, leashed and at our side. He so wanted to join the fun, or perhaps have lunch.

The birds started by eating grass, but their venture soon turned to search-and-destroy, focusing on bugs, slugs, and grubs. Besides the fun of watching them, this, of course, is the second reason we let them out into the yard. I watched a small New Hampshire Red waddle over to a raspberry bush and fix a beady eye on a Japanese beetle, high above her on a leaf. Then, a sudden leap, straight up. That pest was history. Very gratifying.

We also have a third reason for loosing the chickens. All the added natural protein and beta carotene they ingest eventually pays off in great eggs with viscous whites and sturdy orange yolks. And, I might add, in firm and tasty meat.

The only downside to loosing the flock into the yard is damage they can do to flowerbeds. Chickens are especially attracted to red; and Anne’s begonias, geraniums, and impatiens sometimes suffer for it. But netting usually is enough to protect them.

But how, you may ask, do we get the chickens back in their quarters? Herding chickens, after all, must be nearly as impossible as herding cats. And it would be, if one had to herd. But, luckily, chickens do come home to roost; they put themselves to bed. We typically let them out in the late afternoon; and as soon as shadows begin to lengthen, they move in closer to the still open gate. By twilight they’ve all gone through it. By dark, they’re all inside the henhouse.

Black night, you see, is a dodgy time for chickens _ the time of weasels, foxes, bobcats, and who knows what else. Descended from birds who took such threats seriously, today’s chickens want no part of the great outdoors after dark. So to bed them down, we have only to walk to the henhouse, open the human-sized door, reach inside and close the hatch to the yard. (And, of course, wish them goodnight.) They have a fine life, these birds.

We talked with Calvin about other chickens, ones that never see the outdoors but are raised by the tens of thousands in buildings as big as hangers.

Those birds spend their whole unnatural lives pushing and fighting. Worse yet is the fate of egg producers, each wedged with five others in a cage no bigger than a milk crate. They spend their days without room even to open their wings. That’s what happens when the industrial model is applied to raising animals. The living bird is defined as no more than an egg machine or eventual meat. I think that is an offense against nature.

But there’s another awful effect of shrinking a chicken’s meaning to just what it can provide to humans. Three examples are living right now in our henhouse. When all our other birds are spread out across the lawn, those three never leave the house. They spend all their time eating feed and guzzling water, and they’ve grown so fast that their legs barely support them. Their hybrid breed is called "Cornish Cross Giants." The humans who distorted their nature should be ashamed.

I order my chicks from the hatchery as "mixed heavy breeds," and that usually means a nice variety of sturdy birds that lay large brown eggs. Some years ago the mix first included a couple Cornish Giants. They started the same size as the other chicks but within weeks were literally overshadowing them. I watched in horror while these Frankensteins put on more weight than their legs could support. Toward the end of their lives (when I could watch no more), they would spend the day moving from food trough to water trough, dragging their bodies along by their wingtips.

That’s what comes of ignoring chickens as living creatures and reducing them to units of production. Such "units" get hybridized away from normal life, if that serves economies of production.

I’m telling the hatchery: No more Cornish Giants, or no more orders from me.

With his email, young Calvin included five great photos. The best is of him and Blue, Calvin smiling into the camera and Blue doing his dog’s equivalent. Then there’s Blue in repose _ sacked out on the grass, nose on front paws. And Blue at full throttle, ears flapping, about to leap through a hoop. And a final one of Bravey, stepping across the chicken yard threshold and into a larger life.

Calvin, bless him, also found something of a larger life here, and that makes Anne and me very happy for him. With no real right, we feel as proud as grandparents.

Read about Jim Atwell’s book ``From Fly Creek_Celebrating Life in Leatherstocking Country" at JimAtwell.com.