Circle M Farm

Last night I killed a chicken for the first time. “We” have butchered chickens to eat before, and I do all the plucking and gutting, but my husband Shannon has always been the one to actually bring down the hatchet. I have held the chickens, and a goose and a duck, while he’s done the chopping, so I’ve been right up close and involved in the moment. I catch the chickens and I decide who goes into the pot, but I’ve never been the one to actually end the life. Until last night. And it was, frankly, easy, in a certain way. But very hard in another.

The chicken was really a large chick, one of the first group of babies born in (or actually, under) my henhouse this spring. Sometime in the past week, the chick was injured. Perhaps by another chicken in the scurry for food, perhaps by a goat or sheep rising to stand in the crowded shade of the henhouse where all the animals sleep together in the afternoons. I didn’t see the injury happen, but I noticed this little hen limping and watched for several days to see if the leg improved.

A chicken injured will rapidly deteriorate unless the damage is very minor. I’ve had some limp for a few days and improve, but generally a chicken is not very resilient. They’ve got hollow bones, for goodness sake! This one limped, then hopped on one foot, then dragged itself around, and finally I put it in a large cage with a companion to see if it might heal with less competition for food and water. I waited more days than I needed to make the decision that this chicken would never recover.

Yesterday, as I visited all my animals in their various places, I observed that the hen’s legs were splayed limply, one to the front and one to the back. Her eyes were closed, but she lived, and when I stroked her back she chirped prettily with amazing strength. That made my decision. But I nevertheless did all the rest of my farm chores, rather slowly, and took some time to marvel at the display of stars in the darkening sky. Then I returned to the cage with my shiny tiny hatchet and lifted the light little hen into my arms.

What frightens me the most every time we butcher chickens is that Shannon will not strike hard enough to kill the bird instantly. The first animal we killed here on the farm was a goose, and while I snuggled it’s giant white body tightly to my own, Shannon had to hack repeatedly at the huge neck laying across a stump. He cursing and I crying, we seemed to need an eternity to finish the job. I have no idea what kind of suffering the goose endured, as it made no sound. But I’ve been determined ever since to do better, so I nag Shannon mercilessly through every round of roosters we harvest.

This time, I was on my own, as Shannon was out of town. I wanted the hen to suffer no longer, and as we walked to the stump behind my garden shed I held her tightly to my chest. I prayed desperately for the strength to get through her neck instantly. I shuddered, imagining the hatchet bouncing off, or sliding clumsily to one side.

The night was cool, and by then very dark and quiet. I laid her gently on the stump and held her wings close to the warm body. She didn’t move, but as I raised the hatchet, she chirped another few pretty notes, as in song and not in distress. The blade hit right where it should, and separated her head easily, effortlessly from her body.

I instantly burst into tears and found myself mourning suddenly, violently, for the unnamed pain and brokenness of all the universe. With the stars strung brilliantly above me, I became aware of the crushing weight of the imperfection, the love and the bitterness of this beautiful life. I mourned for my little lamb lost, for my mistakes and for all the hurts my children have endured and may endure. I mourned for the terrifying preciousness of their lives that will likely never be fully realized by them or anyone else. I mourned for the sick children of friends and my inability to communicate the magnitude of the love I carry in my breast. I breathed.

Then I went inside, put my clean hatchet away, kissed my children goodnight and went to bed.