M
Member 482121
Guest
Hi, y'all! I live on 189 smack in the middle between Elba and Brantley. I have a rooster and a hen of the barred rock persuasion, four black hens with tiny combs and either red or black ears (don't know what breed they are) and two Easter eggers. My wife and I moved to Alabama four years ago, after retiring. Before Alabama we lived in Kodiak, Alaska. Quite a change--especially the temperature change. We started our chicken hobby right before spring, with 17 chicks. Once we figured out which ones were roosters and which ones hens we realized that we had way too many roosters. We had to kill 9 roosters. We really hated to do that, though we both hunt and are no strangers to killing both feathered and furry critters. I could not force myself to cut their throats, and the thought of wringing their necks simply made me sick. So we caught them one at a time, my wife put them in her lap and petted until they calmed down and almost got sleepy, and then we held them down in a large tub filled with dirt that we use to grow vegetables in. We kept on stroking their necks and backs until they calmed down again and got drowsy, and then I shot them in the back of the head with a .22 LR pistol and hollow point bullets. The brain immediately disintegrated and they never felt a thing--or at least I sincerely hope so.
Those 9 young roosters were delicious. Their meat was lean but not dry, firm but not tough, and the flavor was exceptional. It was almost like eating pheasants, not chickens--nothing like the flaccid, fatty meat of store-bought chickens whose meat is barely attached to the bones and whose leg bones are often bent because those industrial chickens are immobilized in cages so low they can't stand up. Though I'll never get used to killing my chickens, I understand that it's an integral and unavoidable part of raising them.
Those 9 young roosters were delicious. Their meat was lean but not dry, firm but not tough, and the flavor was exceptional. It was almost like eating pheasants, not chickens--nothing like the flaccid, fatty meat of store-bought chickens whose meat is barely attached to the bones and whose leg bones are often bent because those industrial chickens are immobilized in cages so low they can't stand up. Though I'll never get used to killing my chickens, I understand that it's an integral and unavoidable part of raising them.