Returning home from an errand to Edinburgh at 6 am, I am haunted by images of so many chicken death trucks. Even now when I close my eyes, I see them still. Like a viscous wave, I feel the cloying draught of their passing, smell the acrid stench of terror clutching at me. The temperature is 4 degrees on a day when heat is expected, so the curtain sided trucks are open to the bitter chill. Each infant who huddles, a crouching pale blur within the blue and yellow crates, has endured about 42 dawns, days marking out the profit-driven span of their misery.
Fighting nausea as I drive behind, I watch the few, stray, baby feathers, swirling, falling, disappearing. They flutter in the chilly air like snow onto the windscreen. These feathers know a freedom that their trembling infant owners will never know; swirled on a spring breeze that they have never felt until today; glinting in the cool sunshine they will never feel except today, their death day, on this convoy from hell, to hell.
I know what awaits these defenceless little ones; the shackles, the shock that stuns the fortunate, the agony, the scalding tanks, the blades. There are no ears willing to heed their despair, their terror, as they face the nightmare, lonely for the mothers that they never knew; innocent, helpless and afraid in the place where the blood flows and death awaits.
These doomed infants are paying the real price for the demands of every single shopper scooping bloodless packages of flesh into their trolley, paying with their blood and their agony, the real cost of every single, casual, thoughtless ‘I’ll just have the chicken, please’ in a cafe or a restaurant.
Knowing the horror, who would willingly support it?
Please. Let today be the day you say, ‘Not in my name.’
Start finding out about being vegan here:
Do we need to eat animals? https://wp.me/p4TmPw-rK