A few months ago, somebody stole my pet chicken, Clifford. I’d stowed her overnight inside a cat carrier placed in my Hollywood co-op’s unlocked laundry room, instead of leaving her in her backyard pen, to protect her from the cold. Several neighbors expressed dismay at the theft, and I could tell that their grief was sincere. Clifford was the building’s mascot, a stocky Rhode Island Red who chatted with passersby, and sat contentedly on the arm or shoulder of anybody who offered such a perch. In three years of life, she never laid a single egg. By any poultry standard, she was a useless chicken, but she possessed a kind of character that added a certain... More >>>