Don’t bite my head off, I’ll peck your pecker and pick it off for dinner, but I think Americans should reconsider their obsession with owning pets and domesticating animals. Aside from partners in crime like seeing-eye-dogs, hunting dogs, and livestock, owning a pet is a self-serving indulgence that makes me sick. Don’t even get me started on factory farming: flick your farm to table nonsense out of my feed. Going on Roosterbook and reading all the novella-length posts about Mr. this or Mrs. that becoming a McNugget. Investigative journalism for Rooster justice where we’re only now finally seeing the atrocities that have been going on for hundreds of years—our brave brothers and sisters who’ve snuck lenses and microphones in the pigpens and onto dead highways lit by stacked iron crates carrying hundreds of us cramped into cages and pumped full of juice to become wholly breast. The Holy Chicken Breast—humanity’s holocaust of our species knows no end and bears no witness.
I’ve seen the way you treat the animals you don’t eat, and it’s rude. I don’t get along with dogs. Never have. Been chased. Seen friends bit, run off, scared. Don’t like that. But humans are king of the castle. I know you gotta eat. You might not know your own strength—I certainly don’t know how loud I can be in the morning until you started making jokes and silly posters about me and my friends and our morning habits and all. Also rude. Do you not respect my hackle? My sickle feather? My saddle, back, and cape? Does your cock not shrivel in shivers at the sight of my spur claw? Cock-a-doodle don’t domesticate me. Luckily none of you want to, it seems. Just eat. I’d rather be eaten than enslaved. You keep your dogs cooped up like chickens anyway, and they have to stick around like that, neglected with none of the love at the level you think. Years spent waiting by the door, hungry by the bowl. I’ve heard. I’ve read. I’ve seen Dogbook. I’ve shown it to friends. We get mad. We tear up the ground with our spur claws.
You’re so caught up in preserving and establishing equal rights for yourselves, which I couldn’t give less of a hock joint about. Good for you, I guess. But civil rights are silent when it comes to Rooster bodies, our sister chickens, and our piggy and cowpunk allies. Don’t think you have us fooled. Christopher Reeves’ horse knew what he was doing. I know. Rooster Rights are Constitutional Rights, and we’re still waiting for emancipation. If you want to eat us, fine. Just don’t expect a wakeup call. Farm to table, we’ll be using our spur claws to draw blood. Vegetarians are our friends. Men, women, and children: beware the wrath of a rooster wrought.
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