The chickens weren't meant as a political statement, though at least one of my neighbors assumed as much. I bought chickens because, well, they're awesome. What other pet will take care of your lawn, dispose of your food waste and make you breakfast, all in the same day?

Before I bought three chicks from a feed store in Pleasant Grove, one of my chicken-owning friends told me about how the hens in her backyard flock had different personalities. Chickens with personality? I'd always seen them as skittish, pea-brained birds that weren't capable of much beyond producing or being food. Only after watching the little feathered morsels mature beneath a heat lamp in a plastic tub did I understand what my friend was talking about.

Elaine, our Rhode Island Red, was visibly larger and pushier than the other two chicks, and she was automatically at the top of the pecking order. Jane, the Ameraucana, is dodgy and paranoid, like a guy selling Rolex watches lined up on his wrist in a dark alley – though she sheds all that the moment she's in your arms. And Scout, the littlest one, is just eat-your-heart-out sweet. It doesn't hurt that, as a Barred Rock, she's also the looker of the bunch.

When they outgrew the terrarium in our home office, we moved the chickens outside to live in the coop and run my father-in-law and I built from reclaimed and repurposed shipping pallets, picnic tables and cabinets. They have free range over our back yard, under supervision, of course. They take dust baths and eat grass clippings, scratch around our compost pile for bugs and take naps in shady spots all over our back yard.

All was well within our backyard flock – the girls were growing fast and were as thick as thieves – and then it happened.

Two members of my three-chicken flock became more noisy than usual, often in the morning before the neighborhood was awake. Lo and behold, Elaine and Scout weren't going to lay eggs no matter how long I waited. They were roosters – cockerels to be specific. In the chicken lottery, I was only one for three.

The city of Dallas doesn't care how many hens you have, but roosters are forbidden. So Elaine, Scout and I put our heads together, and we hit Craigslist. Although not opposed to putting the two roosters in a pot, I was somewhat reluctant to go through with all the plucking. Besides, chickens are social creatures, and our lone hen, Jane, would need friends.

Luckily, we found a kind rancher outside of Terrell willing to sell me two perfect replacement hens and take Elaine and Scout off of my hands in exchange for a dozen organic eggs.

Cheryl Lacy owns an idyllic ranchette on which she keeps a herd of pygmy goats along with a few horses and a flock of close to 90 hens – plus one gargantuan rooster. After being plenty charmed by the goats and introducing Elaine and Scout to Ms. Lacy, we scooted on out to the barn, where we met the horses and then Ms. Lacy's flock. The recent rains had soaked the soil, making the ground a slick mix of chicken litter and mud. My husband said he'd wait for me outside, thankyouverymuch, while I fetched our replacements.

We herded close to half the flock and chased down two hens, both dead ringers for "Elaine" and "Scout," sans rooster parts.

After thanking Ms. Lacy profusely and begging my husband for a goat (pretty please!), we headed back to Dallas. Though we were glad to finally have capable providers of bird ovum, our joy was tinged with sadness at leaving Elaine and Scout behind.

I know that the two little roosters we raised by hand in our office would find a nice home out in the country with plenty of hens and space to roam.

Back in East Dallas, our omelets have never tasted better.

Joanna M. England is the letters coordinator for The Dallas Morning News. Her e-mail address is jjemison@dallasnews .com.

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