I love my girls: Blanche, Dolly, and Blithe. Every morning I make them porridge, and while they're pecking away I collect their eggs (mildly guiltily). I've given up eating chicken unless it's free-range, organic, and Montessori-educated.
More and more city folk are keeping backyard hens. We've got a tiny garden in the heart of Brighton, so we have Pekins, fancy little bantams with fluffy feet bred specially to pose daintily in the silk sleeves of the emperor of China. There are three urban flocks on our street. You need a fox-proof run at least 5 by 5 feet and a warm, dry, well-ventilated coop. Ours is called Cluckingham Palace.
They need fresh food and water daily, a weekly clean, and time to roam. Chickens have distinct personalities and moods--Blanche is very sassy. They come running when you call and purr when you cuddle them. And they lay eggs. Beat that, four-legged furries.
Years before Stonewall, a cafeteria riot became a breakthrough for trans rights
Compton's Cafeteria in 1970