When I was a kid, we raised chickens. They arrived as a box full of tiny yellow day-old chicks and were parked in a small pen right under an electric bulb (warmth and light) with an old mop head (mother).
We fed them leftovers, kept them outdoors, and their deprived childhood made them vindictive pecky adults as I recall. They spent their time producing eggs which we sold for profit. After a year or so we killed and ate them.
I have not related this tale to my small yellow friends in this plastic box.