Just A Pawn In Their Game There is only one word to explain my short #life, and that is hell. Day in, day out I sit in my cramped cage, unable to move; paralyzed. I cannot even stretch my wings, nor swim in a lake like I should and eat bread thrown by kind people. I am trapped in this foie gras farm, with nothing to entertain me or relieve my stress. Feathers and putrid dirt build up and up inside my cage like dirty plates after dinner and my nostrils have grown accustomed to the rank smell that constantly lingers around the floor. The noise keeps me awake at night. Constant quacking and wailing, the shaking of grain in deep tubs and the snapping of ill ducks necks. I don't know how I stay sane. The worst part of course, is the feeding. The humans come with their crooked grins and greasy hair, dressed in scruffy overalls and thudding boots, rattling their grain. They grasp my feeble body in their rough hands and ram their tubes right down my frail throat like a battering ram, despite my ever-present protests. Then they pump their grain and fat right down my throat as I splutter and choke on their plastic tubes. I can always feel my liver grow and grow as the pounds of food they force me to eat fills my small stomach right up. The pain is excruciating and sometimes I cannot stand for the pain is too much. All around me birds die. There's a barrel across the hall stuffed with the corpses of ducks. Injuries are left untreated and one poor duck was being eaten alive by rats only the other day. And did you know, the workers here get a pay rise if they kill less than 50 birds per month? We are nothing but pawns in their game. Just as long as our livers are edible, the workers do not care about us. Living in this farm is torturous, and sometimes I wish that my slaughtering would hurry up. I hope that whichever rich fellow dines upon my liver feels guilty for what I went through to please their distasteful appetite. --------- Please refrain from eating foie gras. I wrote this using facts from Peta.