- Apr 10, 2014
- 10
- 1
- 77
Almost 3 months ago, we had just moved from town to our new home in the "country", with a whole acre to call our own. In the back of the yard, there sat a used goat-shed/run that my wife and I had seen and half-seriously mentioned we could make into a chicken coop. Sure enough, shortly after moving, some friends of ours were also moving and needed to relocate their two hens, Dr. Who and Big Red. We gladly took them.
I'm kind of one of those people that can't do things a little bit. Therefore, since it was Chick Days, before a week I had bought 6 more pullets. Then, still in the excitement of the prolonged moment, I bought 6 more baby chickens two weeks later. This time, I wanted something different, so I asked the zit-faced teenager at Tractor Supply to get me 6 straight-run chicks, 3 of them Cornish Rocks, 3 of them straight run random white chicks. Then, I sternly told him, "I only want one of them to be roosters!" He froze for a second, and then looked through them one by one, so seriously trying to figure out which ones would be roosters. After a couple awkward minutes, I finally had to let him off the hook and let him know it was a crap-shoot, and he just needed to grab three.
My 4 year old was once again excited to have new baby chicks. We had the newest ones just a few days, when I had left her for a moment in the coop while I was filling a waterer (I understand someone will scold me for this). I heard a scream that didn't seem like the typical one. I didn't figure she had accidently dropped her string cheese on the floor- it sounded much more dire this time. So, I ran back to the chicken coop to see her devastated face behind her upheld hands. And in the little hands was an upside down, limp chicken body. After much consoling, I learned that she had thought the chicken would like to be tapped on the head with her closed fist. She got over it within a few hours, but had learned a valuable lesson about being careful and gentle with animals. Unfortunately, we were down to two Cornish freaks.
I had no idea that Cornish Rocks were such unnatural freaks until a little research on backyard chickens a little later. I got curious when I saw them acting like a**holes every time food was placed in the feeders. We quickly realized that we needed to explain to the four year old that these chickens were not pets, and should not be named. She also learned that we were going to eat them pretty soon. However, despite the no-name rule, they quickly gained the identification as the "fat boys".
Today, we invited the same friend that had given us our first two chickens over for our first processing day, knowing that he had some insight to offer. He, being a very nice guy, kindly obliged and arrived to see my full chicken processing set up, complete with buckets, a cooler, a processing table, and nooses hanging from a tree- waiting for fat chicken ankles.
I must admit, though I have killed a few animals before for various, mostly necessary, reasons, I still held a small bit of trepidation about the bloody flailing and body-temperature mess that would ensue. Trying to act as unphased and tough as possible, I carried the first chicken by its legs to the noose. Tightened it down, and let go, to watch the poor ****** chicken slip through and land on its head. Finally, we got it strung up and ready for it's demise. Trying not to feel or show any intimidation, I squatted down and sliced its neck with my wife, my friend, and my four year old watching. I used my brand new, razor-sharp Chicago Cutlery knife. Of course, immediately blood began rushing out and the wings and legs spasmed and flailed. I tried not to flinch or turn away, standing strong. However, I couldn't help but finally look down at my left calf, wanting to know how much blood must have squirted on it for it to feel so warm.
I wish it would have been blood. There, wrapping half of my calf was the mother of all tarantulas. With razor-sharp knife still in hand, I began hopping and shaking my leg, trying to shake free from its furry grip. Everyone looked on, not believing that I was freaking out about a little chicken death. Then I began stabbing at my leg, trying to fit the thin stainless steel between the tarantula and my skin, in order to flick it off. After two or three tries and a lot of odd shaking and jumping, I finally freed myself from its ridiculously resilient hold.
The rest of the slaughtering and gutting went relatively well. However, every time I slice a chicken neck from now on, some pavlovian voodoo will cause me to constantly check my legs for big black tarantulas.
I'm kind of one of those people that can't do things a little bit. Therefore, since it was Chick Days, before a week I had bought 6 more pullets. Then, still in the excitement of the prolonged moment, I bought 6 more baby chickens two weeks later. This time, I wanted something different, so I asked the zit-faced teenager at Tractor Supply to get me 6 straight-run chicks, 3 of them Cornish Rocks, 3 of them straight run random white chicks. Then, I sternly told him, "I only want one of them to be roosters!" He froze for a second, and then looked through them one by one, so seriously trying to figure out which ones would be roosters. After a couple awkward minutes, I finally had to let him off the hook and let him know it was a crap-shoot, and he just needed to grab three.
My 4 year old was once again excited to have new baby chicks. We had the newest ones just a few days, when I had left her for a moment in the coop while I was filling a waterer (I understand someone will scold me for this). I heard a scream that didn't seem like the typical one. I didn't figure she had accidently dropped her string cheese on the floor- it sounded much more dire this time. So, I ran back to the chicken coop to see her devastated face behind her upheld hands. And in the little hands was an upside down, limp chicken body. After much consoling, I learned that she had thought the chicken would like to be tapped on the head with her closed fist. She got over it within a few hours, but had learned a valuable lesson about being careful and gentle with animals. Unfortunately, we were down to two Cornish freaks.
I had no idea that Cornish Rocks were such unnatural freaks until a little research on backyard chickens a little later. I got curious when I saw them acting like a**holes every time food was placed in the feeders. We quickly realized that we needed to explain to the four year old that these chickens were not pets, and should not be named. She also learned that we were going to eat them pretty soon. However, despite the no-name rule, they quickly gained the identification as the "fat boys".
Today, we invited the same friend that had given us our first two chickens over for our first processing day, knowing that he had some insight to offer. He, being a very nice guy, kindly obliged and arrived to see my full chicken processing set up, complete with buckets, a cooler, a processing table, and nooses hanging from a tree- waiting for fat chicken ankles.
I must admit, though I have killed a few animals before for various, mostly necessary, reasons, I still held a small bit of trepidation about the bloody flailing and body-temperature mess that would ensue. Trying to act as unphased and tough as possible, I carried the first chicken by its legs to the noose. Tightened it down, and let go, to watch the poor ****** chicken slip through and land on its head. Finally, we got it strung up and ready for it's demise. Trying not to feel or show any intimidation, I squatted down and sliced its neck with my wife, my friend, and my four year old watching. I used my brand new, razor-sharp Chicago Cutlery knife. Of course, immediately blood began rushing out and the wings and legs spasmed and flailed. I tried not to flinch or turn away, standing strong. However, I couldn't help but finally look down at my left calf, wanting to know how much blood must have squirted on it for it to feel so warm.
I wish it would have been blood. There, wrapping half of my calf was the mother of all tarantulas. With razor-sharp knife still in hand, I began hopping and shaking my leg, trying to shake free from its furry grip. Everyone looked on, not believing that I was freaking out about a little chicken death. Then I began stabbing at my leg, trying to fit the thin stainless steel between the tarantula and my skin, in order to flick it off. After two or three tries and a lot of odd shaking and jumping, I finally freed myself from its ridiculously resilient hold.
The rest of the slaughtering and gutting went relatively well. However, every time I slice a chicken neck from now on, some pavlovian voodoo will cause me to constantly check my legs for big black tarantulas.
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