What drives a bird like Buddy? Isn't this the question we've asked ourselves a thousand times before? Not about this Buddy here, but about all the other Buddys.
What compels them to turn their backs on their kind, on themselves? What herculean effort does it take for a chicken to begin another day as a celebrity spokescreature for the world's largest chicken killer?
Imagine him rising in the morning, getting into the whole Tyson kit. The crisp, white shirt. The bow tie. The apron. And, to complete the ensemble, the permanently disheartened and bewildered gaze.
Then it's off to another public event, to put a friendly face—his face—on his employer's poultricidal business model.
The words. Do they catch in his gizzard?
His conscience. Does it still live, or has it been pecked to death by the routine defense of those who would end the lives of his family and friends?
Does he even care that his own neck is on the chopping block? Or, no! That's the answer: The knowledge that he may soon say farewell to the regret, the guilt, and the sickening knowledge that he has betrayed millions and enriched his masters at their expense... That is what keeps him going.