Unwittingchickenlady
Songster
I'm sitting here sobbing, this post has actually taken me hours to compose.
I know they're livestock, but, I've spent a lot of time considering the ethics of farming, considering their tiny lives, the meaning of being alive as I reflexively rock this small bird in my arms. I've considered the fundamental experience of existence, the worth of such, and what kindness truly means.
I believe the only difference between pets and farmstock is our discomfort with giving meat a name and recognizing its sentience.
It's uncomfortable to live with or face the dichotomy of it all.
I'm not here to judge or debate this though, I'm hoping maybe you all could help me remember the life of P.B. for my daughter.
I knew today would come, but it doesn't make it easier to know.
In my arms is the smallest, bravest, sweetest chicken I've ever met. I promised my oldest I would hold them until she gets off work.
His/her name is Mr. Poopy Butthole. (To those that don't like or know Rick & Morty I apologize for the weird name) it had persistent pasty butt and a prolapsed vent as a chick, it never recovered from it despite herculean efforts, and we've treated it for most of its life. (All of the life we've known it for.)
It didn't grow past three weeks, the other birds thrived while P.B. withered no matter what we did for it.
We come from serious chicken country, generations of perdue farmers, and everyone told us to cull it. We are not hardened chicken farmers though.
Almost a month ago I'd worked myself up to it, it seemed on death's door. I read the best means to go about it humanely, I steadied myself, I was prepared to be cruel to be kind.
My daughter was not.
She doesn't live here, she's in her twenties and on her own, we refer to her as the weekend chicken lady. She begged me to give her a last ditch chance to see if she could help it recover. She took P.B. home with her.
I regret letting my resolve wane. I know my hesitation helped create this inevitable tragedy.
My daughter brought Poopy back from death's door, it seemed to finally be thriving, she fed it all the watermelon it could possibly eat (ecstatically, might I add) she administered enemas when it couldn't poop on its own (the watermelon drastically cut the need for this), she was fully prepared to have a special needs chicken. She gave it epsom salt baths, sent me videos of Poopy fluffing and preening in the blow dryer, debrided and tended to its scabbed vent. She played chicken videos for it while it was in recovery so it wouldn't get lonely. It loved pets and scratches, it cuddled the little stuffed animals she gave it as friends, it lived its best chicken life for nearly a month and we thought it might actually be recovering.
Poopy was constipated again today, she gave it an enema and something inside it finally gave.
She's devastated, and she blames herself entirely. I feel awful for the chicken, but I feel so much worse for her. Poopy's ordeal is over, and my daughter had to learn that sometimes it's cruel to be kind. That's an awful lesson, and I know I'm partially to blame.
I held and pet Poopy until its sleep became unburdened. I rocked it long after its last breath.
Tomorrow we'll bury them under the rose of sharon bushes, where P.B. liked to dust bathe in the sun.
For those of you that do so, please give your chickens a hug tonight for Poopy.
I know they're livestock, but, I've spent a lot of time considering the ethics of farming, considering their tiny lives, the meaning of being alive as I reflexively rock this small bird in my arms. I've considered the fundamental experience of existence, the worth of such, and what kindness truly means.
I believe the only difference between pets and farmstock is our discomfort with giving meat a name and recognizing its sentience.
It's uncomfortable to live with or face the dichotomy of it all.
I'm not here to judge or debate this though, I'm hoping maybe you all could help me remember the life of P.B. for my daughter.
I knew today would come, but it doesn't make it easier to know.
In my arms is the smallest, bravest, sweetest chicken I've ever met. I promised my oldest I would hold them until she gets off work.
His/her name is Mr. Poopy Butthole. (To those that don't like or know Rick & Morty I apologize for the weird name) it had persistent pasty butt and a prolapsed vent as a chick, it never recovered from it despite herculean efforts, and we've treated it for most of its life. (All of the life we've known it for.)
It didn't grow past three weeks, the other birds thrived while P.B. withered no matter what we did for it.
We come from serious chicken country, generations of perdue farmers, and everyone told us to cull it. We are not hardened chicken farmers though.
Almost a month ago I'd worked myself up to it, it seemed on death's door. I read the best means to go about it humanely, I steadied myself, I was prepared to be cruel to be kind.
My daughter was not.
She doesn't live here, she's in her twenties and on her own, we refer to her as the weekend chicken lady. She begged me to give her a last ditch chance to see if she could help it recover. She took P.B. home with her.
I regret letting my resolve wane. I know my hesitation helped create this inevitable tragedy.
My daughter brought Poopy back from death's door, it seemed to finally be thriving, she fed it all the watermelon it could possibly eat (ecstatically, might I add) she administered enemas when it couldn't poop on its own (the watermelon drastically cut the need for this), she was fully prepared to have a special needs chicken. She gave it epsom salt baths, sent me videos of Poopy fluffing and preening in the blow dryer, debrided and tended to its scabbed vent. She played chicken videos for it while it was in recovery so it wouldn't get lonely. It loved pets and scratches, it cuddled the little stuffed animals she gave it as friends, it lived its best chicken life for nearly a month and we thought it might actually be recovering.
Poopy was constipated again today, she gave it an enema and something inside it finally gave.
She's devastated, and she blames herself entirely. I feel awful for the chicken, but I feel so much worse for her. Poopy's ordeal is over, and my daughter had to learn that sometimes it's cruel to be kind. That's an awful lesson, and I know I'm partially to blame.
I held and pet Poopy until its sleep became unburdened. I rocked it long after its last breath.
Tomorrow we'll bury them under the rose of sharon bushes, where P.B. liked to dust bathe in the sun.
For those of you that do so, please give your chickens a hug tonight for Poopy.
