Their description:
Dawn breaks. The hens descend from their bespoke Versailles-inspired Le Petit Trianon house to their playground below for a morning wing stretch. Slipping on your wellies, you start for the coop and are greeted by the pleasant clucking of your specially chosen flock and the site of the poshest hen house ever imagined. Your custom-made multilevel dwelling features a nesting area, a "living room" for nighttime roosting, a broody room, a library filled with chicken and gardening books for visitors of the human kind, and, of course, an elegant chandelier. The environment suits them well as you notice the fresh eggs awaiting morning collection. Nearby, you pick fresh vegetables or herbs from your custom-built raised gardens. You've always fancied yourself a farmer—now thanks to Heritage Hen Farm, you're doing it in the fanciest way possible!
The reality:
It is 4 am, one of the 25 chickens you were told would be pullets begins to crow in your "no roosters allowed, 6 bird limit" township. You run screaming, half naked, in your slippers, from the house to bring the offender inside, lest your crotchety neighbor hears and turns you into the township zoning board. The hens make a break for it, squacking and trampling in the dark thinking that it is time to gorge on feed that costs far more than the eggs you collect. You slip on the mud and chicken poop that is now the yard. The "living room", broody room, and library are covered in hardened poop and slick with last nights offerings. The straw you put down is disgusting and in a bad need of a change, the gardening books "for visitors of the human kind" are caked together in droppings and fly marks (so is that pretty chair and the paintings). The youngest of the bunch are perched atop the elegant chandelier because it is the highest thing in the coop. As you are sorting all of this out you notice that the custom built raised bed gardens are the favorite place for your chickens to perch and eat the fresh vegetables and herbs. You have always fancied yourself a farmer and now you realize that you are not, never will be, and decide to turn that pretty little hen house into a playhouse for your over indulged children that never help you take care of the chickens anyway.
