Oh, the chickens I’ve killed. I kill them as humanely as possible, but they are still just as dead. I’ve learned one quick blow to the back of the head renders them immediately dead. I time this blow perfectly…most of the time. I try, I really do. I feel I must give my chickens as good as a life that a chicken can have that only lives 8 weeks and gives its life to feed us humans. I worry and I fret about the temperature in the house…the air quality… water quality...the condition of the floor. I would be shooting myself in the foot to abuse or neglect these creatures, as they are God’s and I feel compelled to be a good steward to them.
I tell you that to tell you this. Sometimes I mess up. I do. I know you are shocked, dear reader. I shall now tell horrid stories about chicken deaths. Do not read further if you have squeamish tendencies, as farm life is gory and there is much carnage, both intentional and unintentional. Do not call PETA. I do the best I can given the circumstances I have. Carry on.
Once, Clint and I were in the chicken houses one Saturday morning discussing how many I had just picked up and what fans he might need to spend the day fixing or cattle he might separate. The chickens were big and due to go out. It was late in spring, sandal and flip flop weather, time to bare our white legs to get some much needed sun. I was telling Clint that my good friend Carolyn and I were going to get manicures and MUCH (on my part) needed pedicures, as my feet were beginning to resemble chicken’s feet.
Just as I was telling Clint all about my future girly forays, a limping, sickly, fuzzed up cull dragged himself past me.
Quick as a wink with my trusty stick, I knocked him dead. Without missing a beat, I continued my conversation about nails and shopping and shoes. Clint found this amusing for some reason, as he finds many things I do amusing in that way that men do…when their women surprise them with a burst of strength or rage or laughter.
Sometimes, I will aim my stick at a sick, bedraggled chicken and will hit a perfectly good, healthy chicken and kill it. This breaks my heart. I will tell Clint about it when he comes home. I feel bad about these “claw-lateral damage” or, “friendly fryer” episodes. Sometimes, I will be chasing a cull and will trip and fall and injure myself, the chicken getting away scot free to live another day. I imagine the chicken is quite proud of this, as I imagine I appear to them as Godzilla, weaving a path of destruction thru their home. How the mighty have fallen! I imagine they think. How the mighty have fallen and ripped a water line out of the ceiling! how the mighty have fallen and injured their knee on the feed line! I have learned NOT to chase them, just be patient and keep the water lines high so the culls can’t get a good drink. This makes them weak and slow and prevents further damage to the chickens and the water lines. I also have learned that when I do fall (and it does happen) to curl myself inward. The less I fight the fall, the better.
Sometimes, I will kill a chicken in the most inadvertent way possible. Once, I was trying to get the drill that I use to raise the water and feed lines in the house into the little doohickey that the drill spins to do the raising part and the end of the drill slipped out, fell forward, knocked a big old healthy rooster right in the head, killing it instantly.
More than once, I have opened a door to the houses just as a bunch of fans kicked on..pulling the door out of my hands and slamming it shut. In the two seconds the door is open, a curious rooster will stick his head out, getting his neck broken and causing instant death when the door closes with a BANG.
I once accidentally let our dog, Champ (a large yellow lab that was, I believe, the worst dog in the world) into house 2 and when I walked back across, found him happily laying on a pile of 40 large chickens he had just happily chased down and killed one by one.
I am astounded when people tell me “horror” stories about watching their grandmother wring a chicken’s neck and kill it for Sunday lunch. This makes me think that someday MY children will write some sort of “Mommy Dearest” novel, filled with stories of chicken killing of their own. Trevor and Tara became pretty good cull killers, although Trevor had a little bit more of a problem with it and would sometimes lose the heart for it and carry the chickens to Tara to kill. Tara had NO issue with it and dispatched them immediately. I smile to think of my blonde, beautiful children, whacking culls with a stick or wringing their necks on summer days, hurrying to get done to get to ball practice or relax by the pool.
This is on my mind because in the last few days, I have one house that seems to be riddled with culls. I hate it. I don’t relish killing anything, but I have no choice. The culls are sickly and would never survive anyway. You certainly wouldn’t want them in the food chain, so that leaves me nothing else to do. So, I whack away, trying not to trip, trying not to fall, trying not to miss, trying not to give myself carpal tunnel…just trying.
So, there you have it, dear readers. Part of being a poultry princess is deciding who gets to live or die, to thin the herd, to give rise to the strong and remove the weak. Tis often a sad, nasty business on a farm, full of death and carnage and gore.
I do it, though…with very good intentions. I do it for the people who will eat my chicken..and to be honest, for my pocketbook. I can’t let the culls eat a bunch of feed and keep it from the healthy chickens. It’s part of survival of the fittest.
Just a note…don’t limp or act sick in front of me. I may be in chicken house mode J
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