My husband Dave’s job as an air conditioning technician first brought him to the live animal market. He had been working on the roof when he looked down, straight into the eyes of chickens crammed into row upon row of cages, stacked five to six high. The sight of these poor, doomed birds broke his heart.

He saw that one chicken had managed to wiggle out of her cage and jump to the ground. Terrified, she was looking about for an escape. Her eyes met Dave’s, and he knew he had to save her.

After a few minutes of negotiations, the little bird was his for $7—a dollar a pound. When I arrived home, I found the little chicken cowering in her box, too scared to move. She smelled awful, and was covered in the excrement of her cage mates. I made a bed for her in a large dog carrier.

We called her “Free.” Our dogs were curious about the new visitor, but, after some inquisitive sniffs, they decided she was okay. Soon she joined them in roaming about the yard although she loved to come indoors and sit on the rug, carefully stretching out each leg and wing, savoring the softness.

Free gradually overcame her fears. When we came home from work, she would jump into our laps and settle in for a contented cuddle. In the yard, she would follow us about as fast as her little legs could carry her.

She would scratch and peck in the dirt for bugs and then roll about, coating herself with dust (something chickens love to do but never can on crowded factory farms).

She quickly learned her name and would come running when called. We were amazed at her forgiving, affectionate nature, considering her previous dealings with humans.

We looked at Free with respect and humility, thinking with shame of the time when we used to believe chickens were little more than body parts—wings, breasts and drumsticks.

We rescued another chicken so Free could have a companion. As we had never had the chance to closely observe chickens before, we were amazed to find that the two girls had very different personalities. “Liberty” was soft-spoken and timid. Free took Libbie—literally—under her wing and introduced her to such joys as wading in the kiddie pool and standing under the sprinkler. In the evenings, they would sit together by the door to their coop (we used to say they were having a porch visit, like two little old ladies). Libbie died in her sleep one night, after only three months. We buried her in the yard. Free sat on her grave for a week.

Free, too, had health problems brought about by being bred for meat. She was also prone to obesity. The poultry industry genetically engineers “broiler” hens to grow from tiny chicks to “market weight” in a matter of weeks. Even though Free ate a healthy diet and got plenty of exercise, her abnormal genetics were stacked against her, and she continued to gain weight.

While a wild chicken might live 15 to 20 years, the average lifespan of a broiler hen is 2 months. Even if rescued, their altered genes usually overcome them in one to four years.

By December, we could see that Free was fading. She seemed tired, and her weight was cumbersome. Walking was a chore, and she could no longer run. She spent a lot of time lying down, and her appetite decreased.

One night, she seemed disoriented and tired, so we brought her inside and fixed up a bed for her. We were in the other room when we heard a noise and ran in to see her gasping for breath and struggling on the floor. We rushed over and gathered her into our arms. We held her as she died, her great heart overwhelmed by the ravages humans had inflicted on her body.

Free changed our lives. We now know that we have an obligation to educate others about what wonderful, unique souls reside in the bodies of seemingly ordinary little birds. We try to teach people that birds like Free are so much more than a meal.

•Please don’t contribute to the deaths of 8 billion chickens every year. Go vegetarian.

•For a free vegetarian starter kit and lots of recipes, call PETA.