I was not the first. Apparently, there was another "Fluff" before me. One who met an untimely end at only 16 weeks old after she swallowed a screw. I'm told she looked like me. Blond. Not as big boned. Lighter on her feet. Able to get up on the roost all the way. Head chicken in her day. Though apparently not all that bright or she wouldn't have gobbled up coop hardware.
In any event, the littlest human named me after her. Fluff #2. A replacement pet.
I suppose I could cry fowl over the whole thing but I'm a better bird than that. I've accepted the name, the connotations that come with it, and gone on with my life. I've kept my beak down and out of trouble. Let the others talk of escape. Of having babies. Of life outside the coop.
I've heard enough to know that the worm isn't juicer on the other side of the fence. Here, I've got a roof over my head, companions, privileges in the yard as long as I stay out of the beds and all the sunflower seeds I can eat.
The human is more careful now than when Fluff #1 ruled the roost. She keeps us inside when building projects are underway. She swings that rolling magnet thing around the yard from time to time or has the little humans do it. She does try.
So are we chickens screwed? Not quite. We're just livestock.