The Life of a Chicken

They say I’m just a chicken. I’m not sure what that means. 

But there’s one thing I do know: my life is nothing like people imagine. 

Chickens like me are bred to grow so big, so quickly that our bodies become prisons. If humans grew as quickly as me, they would be 660 pounds by two months old. 

The bigger our breasts and thighs, the more money the industry makes. My friends and I suffer from birth until death, and many people don’t even know. 

My story isn’t glamorous, but it’s a story that needs to be told. People like you deserve to know the truth. 

Week 1 (Weight: 6 ounces)

There is nothing natural about my first day of life. 

I’m born in a hatchery with countless other chicks. After we hatch, we search frantically for our mothers. I can’t find my mom anywhere. 

When I’m only a day old, I’m grabbed by careless hands that spray my feathers with a pink spray. The spray is a vaccine, and it’s the first of many drugs I’ll receive. 

Suddenly, I’m thrown onto a conveyor belt with other baby chickens like me. Some fall off the conveyor belt and are crushed by workers. 

Will the same thing happen to me?

Finally, I’m crammed into a truck with other newborns. The truck is noisy, and I’m feeling scared. 

I’m taken to a camped shed, where thousands of my new roommates are crowded together. Bright lights beam down for most of the day. I still don’t know if I’ll never see the sunlight.

I keep looking for my mom, but I can’t find her.

I want to rest my eyes and sleep for more than a few minutes, but the light and noise make it impossible.

Even the breeze I feel against my face isn’t natural. Giant fans are ventilating the room, but the air is barely breathable from the urine-soaked floors.

There isn’t a single blade of grass under my feet. Instead, the floor is covered in feces. Nobody comes to clean it. 

Will I ever leave this place?

Week 2 (Weight: 1 pound)

I feel weaker and heavier. I struggle to move. 

How did my body grow so fast?

As we all grow bigger, the space between us shrinks. The air is unbreathable, and the light makes me feel like I haven’t slept in years. 

I dream of everything I don’t have. I dream of my mom, and I dream of the outdoors. 

Many of my new friends are now injured. Some have burns on their skin from the urine-soaked ground. Others stare into space, knowing they will never leave this shed.

Week 3 (Weight: 1.7 to 1.9 pounds)

As I get heavier each day, I get closer to the end. My feet begin to bend under the weight of my body.

I’m struggling to get off the ground, and I can hardly reach my food and water. 

The troughs and feeders are placed too high for some of us to reach. The workers say that if chicks are too small to reach their food, they’re too small to be sold for meat. These smaller chicks will slowly starve. 

Dozens of my friends have already died, and their bodies are scattered around me. I watched many of them collapse, their hearts suddenly stopping. They never got up again. 

I approached one of them to give him affection and warmth, but it didn’t help. 

We’re in pain, but there are no doctors. The workers say it’s too expensive and that our lives are worth too little.

Week 4 (Weight: 2.8 to 3.1 pounds)

Many people think I’m not smart, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. 

One thing I’m really good at is remembering. I clearly remember what I was like when I came out of the hatchery just five weeks ago, and I can feel that I’m much bigger now.

My body is enormous, and I can barely hold it up anymore. My friends look like adult chickens, even though they’re only a month old – just like me. 

Day after day, it becomes harder to breathe. I often lose my balance. When I fall on my back, it’s hard to get back up. 

The shed is getting hotter, smellier, and more crowded as we grow.

I want to feel the wind and the sunshine, but I feel trapped in my own body. I don’t think I’ll ever go outside. 

I don’t feel so well. I’ve been fed so many drugs since I’ve been here.

My chest is swollen. I frantically flap my wings to try to get up, but I’m so exhausted that breathing is too hard. 

More of my friends died last night. With the extra weight I’ve gained, it won’t be long before I join them. 

Final Week (Weight: 5.1 to 6 pounds or more)

My body causes me so much pain, but the last phase of my life is the scariest. 

A huge machine arrives at the shed and grabs us by our wings and legs. We’re locked into tiny cages and crammed onto huge trucks. There is no food or water for the entire journey.

Once we arrive, they pull us out of the cages and hang us upside down. I think my leg is broken from the shackles. 

We begin to panic. 

They try to stun me in a bath full of electrified water. I pull my head away just in time, so I’m still awake. My mind feels foggy, and I can’t think clearly. 

I think my time is coming…

I won’t dwell on how painful it is to be hung by my fragile feet and how difficult it is to breathe upside down, but I’m sure you can imagine.

They tried to stun me in a bath of electrified water. I felt excruciating pain and indescribable fear. I think they wanted to knock me out, but I pulled my head away from the water at the last minute, so they didn’t quite succeed. I just feel a fogginess that prevents me from thinking clearly.

I’m very confused right now, and I feel my time is approaching.

I know I’m ‘just’ a chicken, and I understand the life of a chicken like me might not interest anyone.

But please remember me and share my story with others. And please choose compassion. Leave me and others like me off your plate.

Will You Help Me? 

They say I’m just a chicken – but I know someone cares. Someone like you. 

Will you remember me? Will you tell someone about me? 

My journey is over, but my friends still need your help. Will you choose to leave them off your plate?