by Clare Druce
Separately, the females are inseminated at breakneck speed, despite the fact that vaginas can be bruised and damaged unless the procedure is undertaken with care (2). This process is accomplished with savage haste, each operator aiming at inseminating several hundred females an hour. An employee there told Farm Sanctuary that for the first couple of visits from the AI team the birds showed friendly curiosity, but by the third one only fear.
I noticed one of the inseminators was wearing a wedding ring, and wondered about his sex life. Did he ever stop to think what he was doing to these defenceless birds?
All the while, loud pop music mingled with the sounds made by the terrified birds.
*
It’s by no means easy to obtain turkeys – each bird is far more valuable than the almost worthless battery hen or a cheap-as-chips broiler. Nobody half-way normal is likely to stop by an intensive turkey farm and ask to buy a couple of birds, and if he or she did, alarm bells would ring (and possibly security alarms too).
But in the April of 1990 Chickens’ Lib managed to acquire four turkeys, with no forethought whatsoever.
Introducing Boyo
On the last Monday before Easter, Irene and I travelled to a livestock market in Chelford, Cheshire. We’d gone in the hope of buying a few ‘spent’ battery hens, and to look around. As well as auctioning cattle, this market dealt in anything from chicks and baby rabbits to turkeys. We were sure to find something of interest.
And we did. We found Boyo.
*
For several minutes we’d wandered about, horrified by the lack of concern for the animals about to be auctioned. Regardless of the occupants, all the metal cages had openings of the same dimension, a fact soon to be forcefully brought home to us. As each lot was sold, the auctioneer routinely brought his hammer crashing down on the top of the nearest cage, the noise and its reverberations terrifying animals and birds all along the line.
We noticed a large number of turkeys, mostly looking sickly – perhaps Easter was a good time to turn out unwanted birds. In fact we could see poultry of all kinds, but no ‘spent’ hens. Miserably, we walked back and forth, peering into the cages, stopping for the second time by two in particular, both containing turkeys. Two females, labelled as weighing 12 lbs (5.44 kilos) each, were next to two male birds crammed into a cage of the same size, each of these, according to the label, weighing 25 lbs (11.34 kilos).
Irene and I sometimes agree that our minds work alike, and they did on that occasion. We looked at each other. Could we possibly buy these four? How would we get them home? Finally, how could we bear to leave them here?
So we bid for all four, successfully. The next trauma to hit the turkeys, and us, was when the market staff came to yank them through cage openings suited to an average hen or rabbit, but hopelessly inadequate for turkeys, especially the males. A horrific struggle took place, while we stood by, helpless. We felt guilty, but the turkeys had to be got out somehow. It would have been the same nightmare operation for whoever had bought them.
Finally, with all four stowed safely in boxes in the boot of the car, we were heading back to my house wondering just how foolhardy we’d been. Turkeys? What did we know about turkeys, in the flesh?
These four turned out to be an education for us, though with a very different slant from the ‘education’ at the same time being aimed at an unsuspecting public by the Health Education Authority (HEA). In September of that year, a supporter received a letter from the HEA – she’d written (at our suggestion) complaining about the Authority’s link with the British Turkey Information Service (BTIS). In the letter the manager of the HEA’s Nutrition and Dental Health Programme explained that the HEA had issued a leaflet, in association with the BTIS, promoting ‘dietary messages’ for the prevention of heart disease, including the role played by ‘low fat poultry meat’. Finally, our supporter was informed that the leaflet was entirely funded by the turkey industry (1). No surprises there, then.
But to return to our Chelford market turkeys. Hastily we erected a pen in the (car-free) garage, and unloaded our new acquisitions. The sight of the birds, now out of close confinement, shocked us anew. One of the males was especially filthy and dejected, and obviously crippled. We held out little hope for him and called our vet, who came straight away.
He confirmed our fears. This turkey, perhaps destined for the catering trade and clearly deemed suitable for auction at a market where MAFF and RSPCA inspectors were regularly on duty, was a very sick bird. The vet’s diagnosis included synovitis (a viral or staphylococcal infection resulting in swollen legs), a long-standing dislocation of one wing and a broken wing, the injury possibly sustained when being stuffed into or dragged from the market cage.
While the vet waited for the lethal injection to take effect, the other male turkey began to preen himself – a hopeful sign. Then we heard a ‘clonk’. A rock-hard and filthy chunk of dead flesh (necrotic tissue, in the vet’s words) had become dislodged. The vet wouldn’t commit himself as to its origin – it could have come from another turkey altogether and merely been stuck to one of ours. A dreadful picture was emerging of cruelty and of danger to public health.
*
Soon we could write to our supporters: ‘The three remaining turkeys are now outside, near CL’s little collection of seven hens and a cockerel. Boyo has matured with dramatic speed, and boasts a magnificent blue/red head and neck and pendulous snood. Every time the cockerel crows, Boyo replies with a resounding “gobble-gobble”. To date, he seems entirely unaggressive, and has the look of an immensely wise, rather tired, old man. One of the females is called Marilyn, owing to her star quality. When being recorded on video her keenness to investigate resulted in the camera lens misting up with her breath. Sadly, the other female has a weak leg. Being wild and nervous, she flapped about when approached and clearly did herself some damage. Our vet is sure nothing is broken and we trust she will recover, in time. The immediate reaction of the two vets we consulted was to say that “modern” turkeys are too heavy to bear their own weight, and not intended to survive for long.’
Already we were confirming, at first hand that turkeys’ personalities are distinct – out of just three birds, we had Boyo, serious but unfailingly sociable, Marilyn, inquisitive and outgoing, the other female very timid. How many differing characters would be found in one of those units holding anything up to twenty five thousand birds?
*
After keeping the turkeys separate from the hens and their cockerel for a while, we decided to let them share the same straw yard and orchard. Sadly, one adaptation had to be made for Boyo. A strip of wood across the gateway into the orchard, no more than two inches (5cms) high, presented an insuperable obstacle to Boyo: he could barely lift his feet from the ground, let alone fly into a treetop like his wild counterpart. Poultry scientists’ genetic selection for meatiness had done its worst.
There was another, even sadder, aspect of Boyo’s condition. In common with all turkeys bred for the intensive industry he was, once mature, far too heavy and broad-breasted to mate naturally. Yet his instincts to procreate remained strong. Frequently he displayed all the signs of arousal, fluffing up his feathers, extending his snood, which would then change to a ruby red…yet he could never mount either of his female turkey companions.
One day our cameraman Bob was with us, filming for a forthcoming video. He’d all but run out of film but he did manage to capture the moment when Boyo did his very best to achieve his purpose but, as ever, failed dismally.
*
In spite of his physical problems, we felt confident that Boyo was enjoying life. In September 1990 we wrote to our supporters: ‘Marilyn continues to be outgoing and friendly and has developed a passion for the loganberries that grow over part of the poultry enclosure…Clearly Boyo considers himself guardian of the hen/turkey run, gobbling loudly at any sudden noises, from tractors to laughter. He’s becoming steadily more “outgoing” and is the least aggressive creature imaginable. Sadly, he
’s too slow in all his movements for his own good, and rarely wins in the loganberry stakes! We write at length about turkeys, because the turkey meat industry is all set to expand hugely, and we must prevent this from happening. The industry will be aiming at something approaching 40 million birds to be slaughtered in 1991, yet each one will be a Boyo, or a Marilyn, each one with its own individual character and desire to live a pain-free life.’
Boyo lived peaceably with us for just over a year. Violet loved him, and never tired of crossing the lawn to the little orchard to pass the time of day with him. And he never failed to plod slowly towards her, serious as always yet clearly welcoming her presence.
*
Some might say Chickens’ Lib displayed foolish optimism, with this talk of preventing the expansion of the turkey industry. But in a campaign one must aim high. So we produced dramatic posters and glossy leaflets by the tens of thousands, and lobbied the turkey industry relentlessly. When searching around for a leaflet format that just might make the horrible facts about turkeys’ lives grab the public’s attention, we decided to put the message in the turkey’s own words, as a series of questions and answers. For example, ‘Q: Don’t you get ill? A: Yes, often. Without antibiotics, millions of us wouldn’t survive at all. We suffer from things like turkey rhinotracheitis (TRT) which makes us cough and sneeze, and then we get swollen faces, and painful sinusitis. They give us drugs for that, all right, to get us fit for slaughter. Some of us die, though, and the rest of us are so bored, we peck at the dead bodies. Q: We’ve heard that over thirty million of you go for meat every year. Where do you all come from? A: Well, that’s a horrible story actually. Because of all the selective breeding that’s gone on, the chaps amongst us have become terribly heavy. Our breasts are so “meaty” we can hardly walk, and we certainly can’t mate any longer. Couldn’t do it…’ And so on. We were pleased when an education authority in the West Country included our leaflet in teaching material for secondary schools.
*
Despite all the campaigning, turkey meat production continued to escalate, its image as a healthy food doubtless boosted by the Health Education Authority, a body that should have educated itself before getting into bed with the turkey industry. It wasn’t as if there had been no warnings. In the first three months of 1989, thirteen multiple drug-resistant strains of Salmonella typhimurium were isolated from turkeys on farms in Lincolnshire and North Yorkshire alone (2). We’d sent information about this to the HEA, informing them of conditions in the intensive turkey industry and stressing the dangers of antibiotic resistance in the human population.
However, nothing came of our interventions, and later Bernard Matthews’ now infamous ‘Turkey Twizzlers’ were to infiltrate thousands of British schools.
*
May 1991: Our May newsletter that year included the news that in April Boyo had been found dead: ‘He’d been on excellent form (by his standards) the previous day, so we believed he suffered a heart attack, due to his appalling built-in obesity. He was inscrutable (it would be presumptuous to form conclusions about what was going on in his mind, or what the wise expression in his eyes signified)… “Majestic” was the word that sprang to mind when he fluffed up his feathers to impress onlookers…However, Boyo was a travesty of what a turkey should be. In their wild state, turkeys can fly at 50 mph, yet Boyo was only able to plod along at snail’s pace, barely able to lift his feet off the ground. Before burying him, we weighed him and he registered 50 lbs, around three and a half stone…When Boyo died, the two females huddled together, apparently in a state of shock, for several hours.’
We reminded our supporters of how Bernard Matthews posed for promotional photographs before a backdrop of his magnificent headquarters at Great Witchingham Hall, a flock of free-range turkeys at his feet. ‘We must change this image’, we said.
We ended our tribute to Boyo thus: ‘We had him for a year, and have gained much from knowing him – a magnificent photograph which we are using to great effect, and an education in turkey behaviour, which is both strange and interesting. In welfare terms, Boyo’s life has, we believe, been of great significance. The valley seems quiet now, and we shall miss his presence.’
*
One year later, we re-visited Chelford market but found no turkeys on sale. Straw in the cages was testament to stricter regulations by then in force (3). Following our complaints, we’d been assured that auctioneers would now longer bring their hammers crashing down on the rows of cages. Hopefully these changes apply to this day.
Mr Gummer’s having none of it
On February 20th 1990 we issued a Press Release to coincide with a letter to the then Minister of Agriculture, John Selwyn Gummer. In it we challenged him to spend twenty four hours in a battery shed containing a minimum of 20,000 battery hens, or a broiler or turkey shed housing a similar number of birds. For the benefit of the media (and the Minister?) we included some background information:
‘Battery hens develop brittle bones, malignant tumours, fatty livers, deformed feet etc. and undergo severe deprivation and stress. Broiler chickens (meat-type birds) are slaughtered when only 6-7 weeks old, yet by then many are crippled, diseased and suffering from painful sores and ulcers. Turkeys are crowded together so that aggression is rife. Cannibalism is common, the birds pecking relentlessly at each other, often at the eyes. To counter this tendency, farmers de-beak some turkeys. Those not de-beaked are kept in conditions of deepest gloom. Slaughter of these heavy birds (“spent” breeding males can weigh as much as a child of 8-9 years) poses huge welfare problems, especially since most have diseased hip joints. By law, turkeys may be hung upside down on the slaughter line for up to six minutes.
Chickens’ Lib recognises that Mr Gummer (who is a member of the General Synod of the Church of England) would be exposed to stress, and even to grave doubts as to the morality of keeping living creatures in the conditions outlined above. It is therefore suggested that he takes a copy of the Bible with him, along with food and drink but no extra lighting except a torch. Communications with the outside world would be vital, since a power failure would result in the suffocation, within minutes, of any person or animal within the building.
Mr Gummer will receive his challenge, by Datapost, at the Ministry of Agriculture, Whitehall Place, London on Tuesday 20th February 1990.’
No reply was forthcoming from the Minister.
*
In that same year, 1990, John Selwyn Gummer was reported in The Times as declaring vegetarianism to be a wholly unnatural practice, at variance with the biblical teaching that we humans are masters of the fowl of the air and the beasts of the fields, making it, in Mr Gummer’s reported words, very proper to eat them. In our May fact sheet we commented: ‘Chickens’ Lib considers mankind has proved himself to be a hard taskmaster, more akin to a slave driver, where the fowl of the air are concerned.’
Later, Mr Gummer was to hit the headlines, feeding his small daughter Cordelia a beefburger, his intention being to stem the mood of rising panic over BSE, the terrible brain disease in cattle, transferable to humans. But far from calming the general public he shocked people, who saw the gesture as using his daughter to back up the Government’s propaganda machine.
On May 15th 1990, Farmers Guardian covered John Gummer’s May address to the British Poultry Federation, during which he was reported as stressing the importance of building public confidence in the quality of British produce, while not allowing that confidence to be undermined by what he called ‘maverick groups’. If the cap fits, we thought…
*
June 14th 1990: Violet, Irene and I handed in a battery hen petition numbering 20,000 signatures to 10 Downing Street. Joanna Lumley lent her support by accompanying us, as did Liberal MP Charles Kennedy.
Having said our goodbyes, we Chickens’ Libbers stood around in Whitehall for a few moments feeling a trifle flat, and reluctant to go straight home. Here we were, dressed in our most respectable clothes, having travelled down from Yorkshir
e…
Then an idea came to us. MAFF’s headquarters were just a step away, in Whitehall Place. Maybe we should request an impromptu meeting with the minister? After all, being a thorn in MAFF’s flesh just came naturally to us.
On autopilot now, and certainly not thinking sensibly, we crossed the road and entered the foyer full of apparent confidence, explaining to the person on reception that we’d come to see Mr Gummer. The words had hardly been spoken, when hot on our heels the man himself came bustling through the door.
Without a moment’s hesitation, let alone rational forethought, I went up to him, hand extended. The scene that followed went like this:
“Mr Gummer!” (spoken in warm tones).
He takes my proffered hand, shakes it in friendly fashion.
“Clare Druce, Chickens’ Lib.” I say, pumping his hand up and down.
He drops my hand in horror.
“We just wondered if we could have a word?”
“Speak to my Secretary!” (gesturing wildly to the male Parliamentary Secretary, hovering anxiously behind him).
Exit Mr Gummer, at high speed.
On leaving the foyer we noticed a board listing the day’s diary. It explained everything: Mr Gummer’s next appointment, a few minutes hence, was with representatives from the Country Landowners’ Association, and therein lay the misunderstanding.
*
Mid May, 1992: We’d booked space at the Food and Farming Exhibition in Hyde Park, an important event, with many thousands of visitors expected. Irene and I travelled down together to London, and made straight for a cheap hotel near to the venue. On being shown into one of our rooms we were dismayed to see a pile of crumpled clothes on the bed. Happily, it turned out that the hotelier had picked up the wrong key. Well, you get what you pay for, and at least the bed wasn’t occupied.