Meet Arya, my mother-in-law’s scrappy Plymouth Rock hen and Chief Entertainment Officer of the backyard brood.

Barbara brought home Arya and two more chicks almost a year ago, and all provide the family with countless hours of entertainment and an endless supply of chicken manure to navigate around in her backyard in Huntington Beach.

“Please don’t poop on me,” I whisper to Arya whenever I pick her up, but she rarely listens. I don’t take it personally. Poop happens and, like human babies, chickens are poop machines, so it’s up to me to time my contact correctly.

I’ve learned to scoop up Arya quickly to nuzzle her head or pose for a photo like this one. Then I check my pants to learn if I dodged a bullet, so to speak, and move on to the next chicken.

The other two hens, Cleo and Ginger, are equally irresistible for nuzzling and just as dangerous if my timing is off.