Chicken House Notes | Glad I'm Not a Farm Animal

I recently started working in a chicken house. When people hear "chicken house", they probably think of egg-laying hens, and then the cage debate.

But the house I work in raises broilers, the kind of chicken you picture when you think of fried chicken. A batch is normally raised for 35 days and reaches around 2 kg. They grow that fast because of breeding, not because of growth hormones (that's a false rumor, honestly no hormones). Still, because they grow so fast, there's real animal-welfare talk about their skeletons not being able to hold up all that meat (and that part is true).

The house is floor-raised: one flat surface, no perches, no cages, covered with a thick layer of rice husks (I think wood shavings work too). It's a closed environment, cooled with fans, water curtains and misting, and warmed with heaters.

The first week is when most of them die.

Infections. Eyes that never opened, so they can't find water or feed by themselves. Chicks with no energy, who can barely take two steps even when you nudge them. Lame legs that limit their movement. And even the ones who can still run and eat, but whose growth just can't keep up with the rest.

At first they may look the same as everyone else, but as the days pass and the size gap widens, falling behind means getting pushed away from water and feed, which widens the gap even more. They also get bullied (the flock has a very clear hierarchy).

On my rounds I pick up the ones who have died (sometimes I see other chickens walking right over them), watch for any odd behavior, and think:

"Which kind would I be? Would I have been born with some defect? Would I be one who can't keep up on growth? Would I be culled at some point?"