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Chickens are smart, emotional animals; they deserve our respect.
My wife Janet and I started keeping chickens 14 years ago; we currently have four. Since we eat eggs, we figured we should take some responsibility for how those eggs come to us (I went vegetarian at age 20 once I realized the cruelty and suffering involved in producing the hamburgers I devoured). We wanted to see whether we could obtain eggs ethically and in a way that gave us more connection with our food. And, as bird lovers, we wanted to get to know some hens.
Lately, with egg prices soaring, there’s widespread interest in keeping chickens as a way of saving money. That was not our purpose, and raising hens hasn’t lowered our food bills—though they do give us plenty of lovely eggs. We invested in a secure chicken house and a covered run big enough to give our girls space to scratch and dust-bathe when it’s raining (on most days, we let them roam everywhere in our backyard except the vegetable garden, which they would happily destroy if they could). We feed them the best organic chicken feed. And we take them to the vet if required (one of our sweetest hens ever, Silvie, needed a hernia operation, a significant expense; that happened a year ago, and she’s fine now). We haven’t tried to calculate how much each egg costs us, but it’s more than a pittance.
There’s both good and sad to report from our years of living with hens. But we’re still at it and still learning.
One of the biggest payoffs of our hen hobby is the experience of living with alien creatures. Chickens aren’t much like dogs or cats. Birds have brains that are organized differently from mammalian brains, and birds see colors we can’t register. Chickens communicate vocally with about 25 different calls, screams, whines, cackles, purrs, and clucks. Janet and I spend a lot of time trying to understand what our hens are thinking and feeling, and we’ve learned a little about what motivates them.
Food is certainly at or near the top of the list. Chickens display extraordinary enthusiasm for food and are vigorously competitive whenever any treat is on offer. Their motto: Eat fast and ask questions later.
Reproduction sometimes takes top priority in the hen brain. We don’t keep roosters, since we live within city limits and an ordinance forbids them. Nevertheless, we have outlaw neighbors with roosters, and we are reminded daily that the male of the Gallus gallus domesticus species can indeed make a lot of noise. Roosters are required for fertile eggs, but in the absence of males, hens lay anyway. Some of our hens go broody occasionally, spending a couple of weeks sitting in their nest trying to incubate eggs that aren’t there, because we’ve collected them and put them in our refrigerator. Broody hens need special care, as they tend not to eat enough to keep themselves healthy. The hens often squat for us, as they would for a rooster wishing to copulate; when they do, we give them a backrub to partially fulfill their instinctive need—and to take advantage of a receptive moment when we can pet them or pick them up.
In 14 years, we have gotten to know 10 hens and can recall each one (Janet has painted individual portraits of most of them). We’ve witnessed sad deaths, but also beautiful lives.
Curiosity may be proverbially associated with cats, but we’ve found that chickens are perpetually inquisitive. They spend a large portion of each day exploring every corner of our yard, scratching in the dirt and digging holes. What’s down there? Who knows what might turn up?
Cleanliness requires effort. Sometimes chickens and other birds roll around in the dust as a way of discouraging mites and other pests (spa day!); afterward they shake their feathers in satisfaction. Feather maintenance is always a priority, and time must be devoted daily to preening. The versatile and sensitive beak must be cleaned occasionally by carefully wiping it on a hard surface (or our pants). Chickens and humans have very different ideas about cleanliness, but hens do care about it in their own way.
Affection might not be the strongest chicken motivator, but it certainly deserves to be listed. At first, we thought our chickens’ seeming enjoyment of human cuddles was merely a clever way of begging for more food treats. But long-term observation has shown us that some hens are just as affectionate as any dog or cat, and that food is not a strategic goal of cuddles. One of our hens, Lulu (more about her below) demands at least one cuddling session every day, and will sit in your lap for half an hour or more, soaking up love and offering all the hugs she can give, considering that she has wings rather than arms. Silvie is a cuddler too, but less demanding in that regard than Lulu. The hens’ affection for one another is a little more complicated, as we’re about to see.
Stella: avian elegance, on April 22, 2025. (Photo: Janet Barocco)
Chickens are highly social creatures and instinctively establish a pecking order: One hen occasionally pecks others on the back of the head (often when everyone is eating) to show her dominance.
Lulu is at the top of the social ladder, and she’s a big, loud, confident hen. Friends have asked us whether chickens have individual personalities; the best answer is an introduction to Lulu. She is bossy around the other hens and demanding toward us. If she wants treats or cuddles, she lets us know by screaming—sometimes for minutes at a time—and, unfortunately, she’s as loud as any rooster. Being the top hen comes with perks, but duties as well. It’s up to Lulu to keep social order, watch for danger, and manage relations with the humans.
Stella and Sparrow—of rare designer breeds, while Lulu and Silvie are Orpingtons—are smaller, lower in the order, and relatively quieter and more skittish. Whenever Lulu is close by, they must be wary of a peck. But they’re not constantly bullied and seem to be happy, well-adjusted hens. They know the order and get their needs met within it. Sparrow is a cute comedian, always evoking chuckles from us humans. Stella is a self-reliant, industrious, elegant loner; she’s the smallest of our hens and has a scratchy voice but lays big pastel green eggs.
Some of our clearest insights into chicken social behavior come at dusk, as the hens enter their house and choose a spot on the perch. Who gets to sleep where, and next to whom? The lineup is different every night, and each night there are several tense minutes of jockeying. Sparrow seems to love snuggling up against big, fluffy Lulu, despite the prospect of a peck. Stella likes ascending the henhouse ladder last, and, though low in the hierarchy, usually gets her choice of sleeping spot. Always-agreeable Silvie (our vet called her “a very personable chicken”) just takes whatever space is available.
The whole gang: Stella, Lulu (front, naturally), Silvie, and Sparrow, on April 22, 2025. (Photo: Janet Barocco)
I’ve been astounded to learn the degree to which chicken evolution has been hijacked by humans. Genes matter, and for thousands of years people have been wittingly or unwittingly selecting chickens for humanly desirable traits.
Often, chickens pay a price. Humans want eggs; so, they breed hens that lay up to 300 of them a year—an astonishing feat. Laying an egg is no small matter. It literally takes a lot out of you. While wild relatives of the domestic chicken can live 20 years, most commercial hens live short lives, often (when they’re not killed for meat) perishing after 2 to 5 years. And while they’re pumping out those eggs, they can easily suffer from nutritional deficiencies and bone problems.
People have also bred chickens for size, feather and egg color, and behavior (I’ll refrain from discussing the commercial chicken meat industry, which has its own breeding priorities). Indeed, breeding has created more extreme varieties of chicken than of any other animal species except Canis lupus familiaris (dog). All our most affectionate hens have been Orpingtons of one sort or another: no accident, as most Orpingtons tend to be friendly.
Is it right for one species to interfere so much with the evolution of another? Not many humans seem interested in entertaining the question. One could conclude that chickens have benefitted from their relationship with people: Gallus gallus is by far the most numerous bird species (there are nearly 30 billion of them). So, humans have contributed to chickens’ evolutionary success. But that success depends entirely on chickens’ continued utility to a capricious ape whose overall activities are wrecking the biosphere. My advice: If you love feathered creatures, keeping chickens can teach you a lot about them, but you’ll do far more for this broad class of animals by creating or restoring habitat for wild birds.
In 14 years, we have gotten to know 10 hens and can recall each one (Janet has painted individual portraits of most of them). We’ve witnessed sad deaths, but also beautiful lives. Chickens are smart, emotional animals. They can decimate local insect populations, but they are resilient and courageous. They deserve our respect.
Oh, did I mention the poop? There’s lots of it. Everywhere. Every day. It’s good for the compost pile and the garden.
Recommended reading:
Andrew Lawler, Why the Chicken Crossed the World
Sy Montgomery, What the Chicken Knows
Melissa Coughey, How to Speak Chicken
Theodore Xenophon Barber, The Human Nature of Birds
Gail Damerow, Storey’s Guide to Raising Chickens
Page Smith and Charles Daniel, The Chicken Book
Alice Walker, The Chicken Chronicles
Joseph Barber, The Chicken: A Natural History
Clea Danaan, The Way of the Hen: Zen and the Art of Raising Chickens
Instead of funding industrial agriculture the IFC should help small-scale farmers move to agroecology and regenerative farming which can boost yields, reduce the use of expensive inputs, and improve livelihoods.
The International Finance Corporation’s website brands many of the well-founded criticisms of industrial animal production as “myths.” This reflects the regrettably polarized debate between those who believe that industrial agriculture is needed to feed the growing world population and those who, like me, argue that a far-reaching transformation of our food system is needed.
The International Finance Corporation (IFC) website states that it is a myth that industrial animal production is bad for food security. The truth, however, is that factory farming diverts food away from people; it is dependent on feeding grain—corn, wheat, barley—to animals who convert these crops very inefficiently into meat and milk. For every 100 calories of human-edible cereals fed to animals, just 7-27 calories (depending on the species) enter the human food chain as meat. And for every 100 grams of protein in human-edible cereals fed to animals, only 13-37 grams of protein enter the human food chain as meat.
The scale of this is massive. International Grains Council data show that 45% of global grain production is used as animal feed, while 76% of world soy production is used to feed animals. The inefficiency of doing this is recognized by the United Nations Environment Program (UNEP), which states that it is “essential to fight food insecurity and malnutrition… Reducing the use of much of the world's grain production to feed animals and producing more food for direct human consumption can significantly contribute to this objective.” I calculate that if the use of cereals as animal feed were ended, an extra 2 billion people could be fed even allowing for the fact that if we reared fewer animals we would need to grow more crops for direct human consumption. My figure is very cautious; other studies calculate that ending the use of grains as animal feed would enable an extra 3.5-4 billion people to be fed. Moreover, industrial livestock’s huge demand for these cereals pushes up their price, potentially placing them out of reach of poor populations in the Global South. So, sorry IFC, but it really is not a myth to say that industrial animal production is bad for food security.
To dismiss the harsh suffering endured by industrially farmed animals as a myth is extraordinary
The IFC website dismisses as a myth the argument that industrial animal production is bad for the environment. However, factory farms disgorge large amounts of manure, slurry, and ammonia that pollute air and watercourses. When ammonia mixes with other gases it can form particulate matter; this is a key component of air pollution, which can lead to heart and pulmonary disease, respiratory problems including asthma, and lung cancer.
Industrial livestock’s huge demand for cereals as feed has been a key factor fuelling the intensification of crop production. This pivotal link between the livestock and arable sectors is often not recognized. With its monocultures and high use of chemical pesticides and nitrogen fertilizers, intensive crop production leads to soil degradation, biodiversity loss, and overuse and pollution of water. In short, it erodes the key fundamentals—soils, water, and biodiversity—on which our future ability to feed ourselves depends.
Arjem Hoekstra (2020) calculates that animals fed on cereals and soy (industrially farmed animals) use 43 times as much surface- and groundwater and are 61 times as polluting of water as animals fed on grass and other roughages. Its adherents claim that factory farming saves land by cramming animals into crowded sheds. But in reality it eats up huge amounts of cropland for feed. European Union studies show that feed production accounts for 99% of the land use of the pig and broiler sectors. It is feed production—not the tiny amount of space given to animals on the farm—that makes factory farming so land-hungry.
The contention that industrial systems undermine the socioeconomic potential of small-scale farmers in the developing world is also branded a myth by the IFC. The World Bank, however, takes a different view. Its 2024 report Recipe for a Liveable Planet states, “The global agrifood system disproportionately and detrimentally affects poor communities and smallholder farmers who cannot compete with industrial agriculture, thereby exacerbating rural poverty and increasing landlessness.” Instead of funding industrial agriculture the IFC should help small-scale farmers move to agroecology and regenerative farming which can boost yields, reduce the use of expensive inputs, and improve livelihoods.
Also swatted aside as a myth is the mountain of scientific evidence that industrial livestock production results in poor animal welfare. To dismiss the harsh suffering endured by industrially farmed animals as a myth is extraordinary. In its own Good Practice Note on animal welfare the IFC lists what are commonly recognized to be the key characteristics of factory farming—confinement in narrow stalls, overcrowding, barren environments, painful procedures, hunger, and breeding for high yields leading to health disorders—and identifies them as “welfare risks” that need to be tackled. But now, in a remarkable volte-face, the IFC airily dismisses these problems as a myth.
IFC’s position stands in sharp contrast to UNEP, which states that “intensive systems deprive animals of some of their most basic physical and psychological needs.” World Bank economist Berk Özler has written about the value of policies under which low-income countries can grow without causing massive increases in suffering among farmed animals. He writes, “Perhaps many low-income countries can leapfrog the stage of industrial animal farming, towards something more sensible.”
I urge the IFC to recognize that industrial animal agriculture is destructive—destructive of food security, the environment, small-scale farmer livelihoods, and the well-being of animals.
Instead of admiration and awe, many visitors will react to this display with disgust, seeing the governor’s trophy as an example of the shameful way wildlife are treated in Alaska.
That Alaska Gov. Mike Dunleavy killed a large, majestic Alaska brown bear simply for his amusement, ego, and bragging rights, then had the hide mounted prominently in the Anchorage International Airport for all to see—complete with a photo of the governor posing with his kill, and an advertisement for the Safari Club International, whose “generous contribution” paid for the sordid display—is a perfect embodiment of the State of Alaska’s disgraceful treatment of its world-renowned wildlife.
The governor’s kill was one of the 1,200-1,900 permitted trophy brown bear kills in Alaska every year, mostly by non-residents. These kills are not for food or subsistence (the state says fewer than 10 brown bears a year are killed for subsistence purposes), but just for hides, trophies, and the "joy” of killing. This includes bears that gather to feed on salmon runs in protected areas such as Katmai National Park and McNeil River State Game Sanctuary—to the delight of thousands of paying visitors—that are then targeted by trophy hunters as they disperse after the salmon runs end. The skinned carcasses of these bears are mostly discarded and left to rot—the very definition of wanton waste. The hides are apt to end up on the living room wall of a vain, rich Texan to brag about at cocktail parties.
Further, Gov. Dunleavy’s administration has recently shot and killed hundreds of brown bears (many of them newborn cubs), black bears, and wolves in its unscientific and futile aerial predator control effort; permits “hunters” to bait bears; permits killing of bear mothers and cubs using artificial lights at dens; permits killing wolves and coyotes and their pups at dens; and its Board of Game is a special-interest travesty.
It takes a very small man indeed to kill an innocent animal simply for a sadistic sense of pleasure, a trophy, and bragging rights.
Now, this depravity is on full display—along with the many other dead, snarling animals displayed around the airport—for thousands of visitors to see as they first step foot in the state, most coming here specifically to view Alaska’s spectacular wildlife (which contributes twice the revenue to the state’s economy as does recreational hunting), and many specifically wanting a chance to see our iconic brown bears in the wild—alive, not stuffed in a glass case. Instead of admiration and awe, many visitors will react to this display with disgust, seeing the governor’s trophy as an example of the shameful way wildlife are treated in Alaska. People increasingly feel that bears deserve better than to be killed merely for human ego, and want trophy hunting banned.
Psychologists say that this sort of trophy hunting derives from narcissism, an inflated sense of self, an infantile ego craving attention; a deep-seated psychopathy, incapable of empathy; and virtue-signaling to those from whom one is desperate for admiration and validation. And there may be a peculiar religious component to such killing, as it accords with the perverse biblical instruction for man to “subdue… and have dominion over… every living thing that moveth upon the Earth.” And perhaps such trophy killing simply provides a brief dopamine hit—a momentary, physiological high—desired by our Paleolithic ancestry.
To trophy hunters like Alaska’s governor, killing large animals, particularly predators, is a feeble attempt to project superiority, power, machismo, wealth, and prestige. Even though the governor may be a full-time office bureaucrat, he’s desperate to be seen as a courageous, tough Alaska man right out of a Jack London novel. In fact, it shows just the opposite.
Killing an innocent brown bear for fun, with a high powered rifle, from a distance, with a professional guide leading him to the bear, and then displaying the mounted hide in a public commons for all to see, projects a pathetic, disturbing emotional insecurity. While trophy hunting is increasingly being banned around the world (recall the global outrage to the 2015 killing of Cecil the lion by an American trophy hunter in Zimbabwe), not here in the “lost frontier,” where it still serves the insecure egos of many clinging to the 19th-century image of the great white hunter, the buffalo hunters, conquering an untamed wilderness.
It takes a very small man indeed to kill an innocent animal simply for a sadistic sense of pleasure, a trophy, and bragging rights. Now thousands of Alaska visitors will see this psychopathy on full display at the Anchorage airport, where the governor’s trophy stands as a monument to arrogance, special interests, phony masculinity, contempt for nature, and the State of Alaska’s tragic mismanagement of wildlife.