What the Oprah Show Didn't Tell You About Cage-Free and Free-Range

The full-fledged reaction and analysis I promised you regarding the Oprah program on the treatment of farm animals and Proposition 2 has been delayed a few days while I cool my jets and organize my thoughts. I was pretty worked up after watching the show, and although I have loads of fun writing when I'm angry, I'd rather write intelligently and calmly in this case—or at least more calmly than I could have earlier this week.

I'd reached the point where I could do that this morning, and then I went and rewatched the show, to make sure I had my facts straight. What was I thinking? I'm angry again! *sigh* So first, before we get into a discussion of this specific show and representation of animals and their circumstances, I'm going to ask you to please read someone else's words. You may find the story a bit long, but if you are eating eggs, even cage-free eggs—especially cage-free eggs, actually—you must read it nevertheless. As HumaneMyth.org notes in its analysis of this report, "this riveting account is one of the few published investigations of 'free range/cage-free' egg facilities in the U.S."

Following is an excerpt from, and link to, this must-read firsthand account, which includes two stories about two different cage-free/free-range farms, one of them certified organic:

A Rare Glimpse Inside A “Free-Range” Egg Facility
By Jewel Johnson

I called the farm to ask if I could come by and see the birds, and I told the woman who answered exactly why I wanted to visit. She assured me the chickens are treated well, and I could stop by some time the next week. . . .

When I reached the property, I saw one metal chicken "house/shed" with no windows and some circular fans along the outside, and in front was a home, the home of the woman who answered. This was a small, family run, free-range, egg facility, but the chicken shed looked cold—nothing family like about it. I approached the door of the shed where I saw a window with an open sign posted. I opened the door and entered the building to see who was working. No one was around. I was standing in a room with egg sorting equipment, cement and some scattered feathers, and I could hear the sound of chickens in the distance. Maybe the people running this business were taking care of the chickens?

I walked towards the sound, approached a filthy, beat up door, and opened it slowly. Upon opening the door—it was dark. Only one bulb was on in the very far off distance. It must have been 60 watts—and not enough to light up this metal Quonset hut used to house the birds, the ten thousand birds that were crying inside. The floor under my feet was cement, and the building was freezing cold with no heat in early April. I couldn’t see much for hens at all down the shed… it was just too dark. All I could see was black, all I could hear was crying of hens, all I could smell was ammonia—it was a cold, black cement hell.

I looked down before taking a step to find a sick bird hunched down with her face on the floor. Her neck was dangling down as if she was in sorrow. I scooped her up and . . . looked around for anyone to let them know they had a sick bird, to find no one. . . . She was severely dehydrated and emaciated. Her beak was clipped short and it looked raw, leading me to believe she was just unable to eat due to the mutilation of beak clipping from the hatchery she came from. . . . $230 later for veterinary care of a starving chicken, we left the vet clinic to head home. At this time I named her Mazzy.

Mazzy and I were two miles from the clinic, when she let out a cry in pain, pulling her neck back pressing her neck against her back.  I pulled over to hold her sobbing, "you're not alone, you're not alone." This happened two more times before we reached my house. She died in my arms shortly after.

The story of what happened next at this farm—and what happened when the writer visited the next farm—continues here: "Rare Glimpse Inside a 'Free-Range' Egg Facility." Please take the time and heart to read it.