Hello, my fellow Backyard Chicken folk. I've just finished an essay for class concerning an event that changed me, or at least taught me something of myself. Of course I had to write it about chickens! I was hoping for some feedback. And also, a warning- while my story is not particularly gory, it does concern death and a small portion of slightly graphic description. Just letting you know. Without further ado, here it is:
I have always loved keeping chickens. It is with my little ragtag flock that I have had some of my proudest moments, and it is with them that I have also had my humblest. But I would never trade a single memory with my birds, not for all the power in the galaxy. One memory in particular oft lingers in my mind, burning white-hot in my heart during those nights spent wide awake, the clock silently blinking in the darkness, trudging steadily on.
They were born on July 15th, and they were the most beautiful, splendiferous, clumsy little chicks I had ever seen. They were the first I had ever hatched. Of course, I say I hatched them, but it was my wonderful white hen that did all of the work. For the past 21 days, she had sat expressionlessly, staring unmoved at the walls of her nest box doing little else than simply waiting. The morning was heartbreakingly perfect; the sky of mottled hue, the sun peered through ruffles of clouds over the treetops, seeming to smile upon my hen with approval. By sundown, all six of the eggs had hatched. I went to sleep that night with a smile on my face and love in my heart. Life is truly a precious thing, I thought, drifting into contented dreams.
Days, then weeks, and months passed. The chicks had feathered out and moved into the coop with the other seven hens under the protective gaze of their mother. All was right with the world, as the chickens freely foraged the property during the day and were shut in at night. But even after the birds were safely in the coop, I would sometimes go to bed only to be tormented by nightmares of pursuing a fox and asphyxiating it bare-handed, desperately fighting off an armada of shifty shadowy predators, or any other creatures my sub conscience could conceive, hell-bent on attacking my flock. At that point, I had never lost a chicken. Who could have known that the first casualty would be at my own hands?
The seasons changed and passed as I learned the personalities and traits of the younger generation. I had been watching their development while keeping an eye out for the physical changes that would clue me in on the gender of the babies. I had my suspicions, and sure enough, three of the six were roosters. I had been pleased at first, hoping for the roosters to protect the flock in my absence. A few more months passed before I would finally admit to myself that three roosters were too many to be sustainable in a flock of only eleven hens. It was December before I could even bring myself to consider ending the life of one of my own birds, even though I did my best to contemplate the roosters’ impending doom as nonchalantly as possible. The topic was morbidly fascinating, and I pored over articles on avian anatomy and body systems, though at the same time desperately searching for the most humane way to end that life.
In order to do this, Father and I had been researching the best ways to kill and eviscerate a chicken for several weeks, but he seemed surprised when I announced that I had enough, and we would be one rooster down before the week was out. I had managed to convince myself that I was tough, our hands were steady and it would all be over without any pain or fuss.
That afternoon, it was with great serenity that I picked up Alonso, my big white rooster, second-born of his generation, the most photogenic chick, and also known as -even with my ever-continuing protests- Gertrude by my older sister. I cradled him in my arms with utmost care, whispering to him and preparing myself mentally as Dad prepared the tools. As we waited, I talked. I told Alonso about the day he was born, how thankful I was for his life, and how deeply I cared for them. I explained to him that this was for the good of the flock, for the preservation of the hens, and that he shouldn’t take it personally. I stroked his soft white feathers as I talked, searching for any way to comfort the both of us. My composure was steadily wavering as the time drew near to quench the flame of Alonso’s life.
And then that time came, loathe though I was to greet it. I walked up to the old tree stump sitting in front of my father’s blacksmithing shop. Our plan was to chop his head off with one blow of an axe to sever his neck and kill him instantly. For the weeks leading up to Alonso’s demise, I had convinced my parents that this would be easy, for I knew the secret of how to hypnotize chickens. I had only tried it a few times on some of my older hens, but the general idea is to lay the bird flat out on the ground and draw your finger away from the tip of its beak several times, after which the avian in question will not move, and lie in a trance for several seconds. It was our plan to “hypnotize” him while on the stump, and then quickly bring down the axe.
I had laid Alonso down on the stump and made several attempts to hypnotize him, but they did not work. He only wriggled with alarm and I became frustrated. It was clear that I would have to hold him still myself. I positioned my arms over his lower body, leaving his neck clear and effectively pinning him to the stump, which was, in hindsight, not actually wide enough in diameter to allow for hypnosis or even comfortable beheading. But I had no way of holding his head in one spot, holding his body still while keeping my person away from the wicked blade of the implement. Thus, he moved his head freely and kept an eye on things as he pleased, causing a possible hazard for the misplacement of the blade. I feared for the safety of my elbow, as one wrong movement on anyone’s part could cause me to be severely injured. My stomach fluttered dizzily. I could barely believe what I was doing. My father asked me if I really wanted to go through with this. For the briefest moment, I could imagine myself taking the easy way out, letting Alonso back in the chicken pen, and forgetting the whole thing. “Yes,” I remember myself saying. For the good of the flock, for the good of the flock, I repeatedly told myself. I can’t let down the flock. A leader does what must be done, no matter the circumstances. “Just do it.” And please get this over with, I added silently.
I was aware that when beheaded, a chicken is still able to move for a short while afterwards. I was not willing to let him run rampant down the driveway, headless and flinging blood around, causing me nightmares for the rest of my life, so I focused my attention on holding Alonso down. I tensed, clenching my teeth as I waited. My father took a small step back, swinging the axe in a well-practiced arc where it landed squarely with a dull thunk. My elbow had nothing to fear, for his blade struck true, cleanly severing the inside business but for a small bit of neck skin. But I did not have much time to admire the accuracy of the blow, for the moment the axe hit, Alonso began to writhe. He wriggled and thrashed his powerful talons, scratching deeply into my skin and struggling against my weight. It seemed like a long time before Alonso finally lay still in my grasp. I numbly gazed at the scene before me, taking in the sight of his stiff body and the pools of already congealed blood spattered all over me and the stump. Out of morbid curiosity, I picked up his head. Besides the fact that it was no longer connected to his body, he looked completely normal. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed my little orange hen silently regarding me from the pen, her body language showing curiosity on the verge of alarm. I hoped she didn’t have to see that. I set down Alonso’s head reverently and followed my father into the shop. From there, we processed the body and prepared it for the kitchen with little incident. It wasn’t until that night that I began to feel a deep sense of loss.
I lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling, considering the day’s events. Why aren’t I crying? I asked myself. That was probably one of the most traumatic things I’ve ever done. I’ve gone and murdered one of my own flock, one who depended on me for safety and care. At once, I heard a pack of coyotes yipping and baying in the night. I could tell they were close. I knew my flock was locked up safe and sound in the coop for the night, but there’s something about a pack of wild animals that freezes you in time. I lay there, immobile, wondering idly if they had found the pile of guts I had left for the scavengers in the far end of the field. As I mulled it over in my mind, I came to the realization that the reason I could handle Alonso’s death so well was that I did it out of love. Instead of taking the easy way out and letting those in my care suffer for it, I took responsibility and did the right thing. Because I took his life out of love and made myself promise to remember him as he was when he was living, I was able to put aside the trauma of taking the life of an innocent creature. As I later wrote in my journal, “All living things must die, but all things that have died, have lived.”
-Charlotte P.
I have always loved keeping chickens. It is with my little ragtag flock that I have had some of my proudest moments, and it is with them that I have also had my humblest. But I would never trade a single memory with my birds, not for all the power in the galaxy. One memory in particular oft lingers in my mind, burning white-hot in my heart during those nights spent wide awake, the clock silently blinking in the darkness, trudging steadily on.
They were born on July 15th, and they were the most beautiful, splendiferous, clumsy little chicks I had ever seen. They were the first I had ever hatched. Of course, I say I hatched them, but it was my wonderful white hen that did all of the work. For the past 21 days, she had sat expressionlessly, staring unmoved at the walls of her nest box doing little else than simply waiting. The morning was heartbreakingly perfect; the sky of mottled hue, the sun peered through ruffles of clouds over the treetops, seeming to smile upon my hen with approval. By sundown, all six of the eggs had hatched. I went to sleep that night with a smile on my face and love in my heart. Life is truly a precious thing, I thought, drifting into contented dreams.
Days, then weeks, and months passed. The chicks had feathered out and moved into the coop with the other seven hens under the protective gaze of their mother. All was right with the world, as the chickens freely foraged the property during the day and were shut in at night. But even after the birds were safely in the coop, I would sometimes go to bed only to be tormented by nightmares of pursuing a fox and asphyxiating it bare-handed, desperately fighting off an armada of shifty shadowy predators, or any other creatures my sub conscience could conceive, hell-bent on attacking my flock. At that point, I had never lost a chicken. Who could have known that the first casualty would be at my own hands?
The seasons changed and passed as I learned the personalities and traits of the younger generation. I had been watching their development while keeping an eye out for the physical changes that would clue me in on the gender of the babies. I had my suspicions, and sure enough, three of the six were roosters. I had been pleased at first, hoping for the roosters to protect the flock in my absence. A few more months passed before I would finally admit to myself that three roosters were too many to be sustainable in a flock of only eleven hens. It was December before I could even bring myself to consider ending the life of one of my own birds, even though I did my best to contemplate the roosters’ impending doom as nonchalantly as possible. The topic was morbidly fascinating, and I pored over articles on avian anatomy and body systems, though at the same time desperately searching for the most humane way to end that life.
In order to do this, Father and I had been researching the best ways to kill and eviscerate a chicken for several weeks, but he seemed surprised when I announced that I had enough, and we would be one rooster down before the week was out. I had managed to convince myself that I was tough, our hands were steady and it would all be over without any pain or fuss.
That afternoon, it was with great serenity that I picked up Alonso, my big white rooster, second-born of his generation, the most photogenic chick, and also known as -even with my ever-continuing protests- Gertrude by my older sister. I cradled him in my arms with utmost care, whispering to him and preparing myself mentally as Dad prepared the tools. As we waited, I talked. I told Alonso about the day he was born, how thankful I was for his life, and how deeply I cared for them. I explained to him that this was for the good of the flock, for the preservation of the hens, and that he shouldn’t take it personally. I stroked his soft white feathers as I talked, searching for any way to comfort the both of us. My composure was steadily wavering as the time drew near to quench the flame of Alonso’s life.
And then that time came, loathe though I was to greet it. I walked up to the old tree stump sitting in front of my father’s blacksmithing shop. Our plan was to chop his head off with one blow of an axe to sever his neck and kill him instantly. For the weeks leading up to Alonso’s demise, I had convinced my parents that this would be easy, for I knew the secret of how to hypnotize chickens. I had only tried it a few times on some of my older hens, but the general idea is to lay the bird flat out on the ground and draw your finger away from the tip of its beak several times, after which the avian in question will not move, and lie in a trance for several seconds. It was our plan to “hypnotize” him while on the stump, and then quickly bring down the axe.
I had laid Alonso down on the stump and made several attempts to hypnotize him, but they did not work. He only wriggled with alarm and I became frustrated. It was clear that I would have to hold him still myself. I positioned my arms over his lower body, leaving his neck clear and effectively pinning him to the stump, which was, in hindsight, not actually wide enough in diameter to allow for hypnosis or even comfortable beheading. But I had no way of holding his head in one spot, holding his body still while keeping my person away from the wicked blade of the implement. Thus, he moved his head freely and kept an eye on things as he pleased, causing a possible hazard for the misplacement of the blade. I feared for the safety of my elbow, as one wrong movement on anyone’s part could cause me to be severely injured. My stomach fluttered dizzily. I could barely believe what I was doing. My father asked me if I really wanted to go through with this. For the briefest moment, I could imagine myself taking the easy way out, letting Alonso back in the chicken pen, and forgetting the whole thing. “Yes,” I remember myself saying. For the good of the flock, for the good of the flock, I repeatedly told myself. I can’t let down the flock. A leader does what must be done, no matter the circumstances. “Just do it.” And please get this over with, I added silently.
I was aware that when beheaded, a chicken is still able to move for a short while afterwards. I was not willing to let him run rampant down the driveway, headless and flinging blood around, causing me nightmares for the rest of my life, so I focused my attention on holding Alonso down. I tensed, clenching my teeth as I waited. My father took a small step back, swinging the axe in a well-practiced arc where it landed squarely with a dull thunk. My elbow had nothing to fear, for his blade struck true, cleanly severing the inside business but for a small bit of neck skin. But I did not have much time to admire the accuracy of the blow, for the moment the axe hit, Alonso began to writhe. He wriggled and thrashed his powerful talons, scratching deeply into my skin and struggling against my weight. It seemed like a long time before Alonso finally lay still in my grasp. I numbly gazed at the scene before me, taking in the sight of his stiff body and the pools of already congealed blood spattered all over me and the stump. Out of morbid curiosity, I picked up his head. Besides the fact that it was no longer connected to his body, he looked completely normal. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed my little orange hen silently regarding me from the pen, her body language showing curiosity on the verge of alarm. I hoped she didn’t have to see that. I set down Alonso’s head reverently and followed my father into the shop. From there, we processed the body and prepared it for the kitchen with little incident. It wasn’t until that night that I began to feel a deep sense of loss.
I lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling, considering the day’s events. Why aren’t I crying? I asked myself. That was probably one of the most traumatic things I’ve ever done. I’ve gone and murdered one of my own flock, one who depended on me for safety and care. At once, I heard a pack of coyotes yipping and baying in the night. I could tell they were close. I knew my flock was locked up safe and sound in the coop for the night, but there’s something about a pack of wild animals that freezes you in time. I lay there, immobile, wondering idly if they had found the pile of guts I had left for the scavengers in the far end of the field. As I mulled it over in my mind, I came to the realization that the reason I could handle Alonso’s death so well was that I did it out of love. Instead of taking the easy way out and letting those in my care suffer for it, I took responsibility and did the right thing. Because I took his life out of love and made myself promise to remember him as he was when he was living, I was able to put aside the trauma of taking the life of an innocent creature. As I later wrote in my journal, “All living things must die, but all things that have died, have lived.”
-Charlotte P.
