Good grief, twenty teenagers? Yes, our chickens have reached that pubescent stage where their feet are growing faster than their bodies, their voices are cracking, and in accordance with their hairy Persian and Colombian owners, they’ve sprouted unattractive facial feathers. They’re now old enough to venture outdoors into a little fenced area where they’re learning to hunt and peck in the grass. We’ve propped a couple ramps leading through a trap door. Making their way down the plank in the morning, they’re out of control and gangly, like thirteen-year-olds on a dance floor.