They came straight off the back of a lorry and were placed carefully – top to tail – in three cat carriers, two hens in each. Broken feathers stuck from the air vents, bright, suspicious, amber eyes peered out. We drove them home, listening out for any squawks of distress, but they were silent. Bemused, exhausted, probably wearily resigned to whatever fate awaited them next.
These former battery hens, who’d spent the entirety of their short lives living in metal cages no bigger than a sheet of A4, should have been on their way to slaughter
These former battery hens, who’d spent the entirety of their short lives living in metal cages no bigger than a sheet of A4, should have been on their way to slaughter. In just 18 months they’d worn themselves out, laying egg after egg after egg, and were now deemed worthless, their scrawny bodies fit only for pet food or maybe the chicken chunks in those ubiquitous and cheap ready meals. The
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