By Emily Herr

The Scoop Digital Newspaper: March 2025

Alright, let’s talk about the perils of pampering poultry. You’d think a chicken living the high life would be grateful, right? Wrong. Oh, so wrong.

It all started innocently enough. I wanted my flock to be happy, healthy, and laying those glorious, golden-yolked eggs. I upgraded their coop to a veritable avian condo, complete with a miniature chandelier (don’t ask). I started offering gourmet mealworms, imported from… well, let’s just say they had frequent flyer miles. And I even hired a rooster therapist, Dr. Peckles, to address their existential dread of being, you know, chickens.

Big mistake. Huge.

Suddenly, my flock developed the kind of attitudes usually reserved for reality TV stars and toddlers denied their nap. Gertrude, my once-humble Rhode Island Red, now struts around like she owns the place, squawking demands for “artisanal scratch” and refusing to lay eggs unless they’re presented on a silk pillow.

Bartholomew, the rooster, used to be a charming, if slightly overzealous, gentleman. Now, he’s a tiny tyrant, strutting around in his custom-made feather boa, demanding that I refer to him as “Your Cluckship.” He even started writing scathing reviews of my gardening techniques on his tiny bird-sized blog.

And don’t even get me started on the ducks. They’ve formed a synchronized swimming team, solely for the purpose of splashing me with dirty pond water when I try to refill their feeder. They quack in unison, a chorus of tiny, feathered snobs, “You’re not worthy!”

It’s like they’ve all attended a tiny, feathered finishing school for the overly entitled. I swear, the next time I hear a chicken complain about the thread count of their nesting box lining, I’m going to introduce them to the concept of “free-range in the neighbor’s yard.” Just kidding… mostly.

The moral of the story? A little pampering goes a long way. Too much, and you’ll end up with a flock of feathered divas demanding their own reality show, “Keeping Up With The Cluckdashians.”

The drama doesn’t stop at the coop door, oh no. My social life has been completely hijacked by these feathered prima donnas. Remember those casual backyard barbecues? Forget about it. Now, it’s all “Poultry & Prosecco” themed soirées, where the chickens critique the canapés (mostly mealworm-based, of course) and the ducks give synchronized swimming performances to a soundtrack of classical quacking.

I even tried to introduce a new breed, a flock of docile, down-to-earth Silkies, hoping they’d bring some sanity. Big mistake. Gertrude and Bartholomew immediately formed a “Silkie Snob Squad,” teaching the newcomers the fine art of side-eye and passive-aggressive pecking. The Silkies, once fluffy balls of sunshine, now sport tiny monocles and discuss the merits of various organic grit brands.

My vet, Dr. Featherbottom, just sighs when I call. “Another emergency pedicure for Bartholomew’s talons?” he asks, his voice weary. “Or did Gertrude’s personal masseuse call in sick again?” He’s started prescribing me chamomile tea and telling me to “find a less demanding hobby,” like competitive snail racing or interpretive dance for garden gnomes.

And the eggs! Oh, the eggs. They’ve become a whole production. Gertrude now insists on signing each egg with a tiny, personalized stamp – “Gertrude’s Golden Goodness,” or “Eggs-quisite by Gertrude.” She even started a black market for her “limited edition” speckled eggs, charging exorbitant prices to the local squirrel population.

I tried to stage an intervention, a “poultry reality check,” complete with a slideshow of chickens living in actual barns. They just scoffed. “Those are peasants,” Bartholomew declared, adjusting his tiny silk scarf. “We’re influencers.”

I’m starting to suspect they’ve formed a secret society, with tiny, feathered handshakes and clandestine meetings held under the moonlight. I’ve even caught them whispering in what I can only assume is a complex chicken dialect, possibly plotting world domination, one gourmet mealworm at a time.

I fear I’ve created a monster, a feathered Frankenstein of entitlement. And I can only hope that one day, they’ll realize that true happiness isn’t about the thread count of your nesting box, but about the joy of a good dust bath and a handful of scratch. But until then, I’ll be here, serving my feathered overlords, one organic mealworm at a time.

The author would like to thank Sugar Feather Farm for providing the inspiration for this article.

Check out Sugar Feather Farm for all your fowl needs.

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