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One of the flaws in poultry husbandry is the necessity
of killing roosters. It must be
done, like weeding a flower garden.
To their credit, the roosters make it easy, as they so often become
vituperative creatures, full of hate and sound. Yet they can be strikingly beautiful, and I do regret their
deaths. On our property, a healthy
percentage appears to be one rooster for every ten hens. That usually means five birds from my
house, and another five from Margaret, ten proud cockerels.
If I were a sensible chicken keeper the hens who have
ceased to lay consistently would join those ten. Most poultry businesses do not provide a retirement
community for non-laying hens. A
hen may live ten to fourteen years, and if only two to four of those years are
egg-laying years, well, that is a lot of grain. Truth is, I love my hens, their chuckling cluck, their
color, their vehement defense of the nest. I love the roosters as well, and some become pets, come when
called, and are my helpmates in keeping the flock safe. Yet a certain number must go, and on
that day, preferably a cool, windless day, Margaret and I get together to
slaughter.
Once
the blood has been drained from their bodies they become pale shadows of their
prior magnificence. Moments
earlier they were strutting and calling; tossing their iridescent hackles in
challenge. Just catching them is a
fight. They puff up and hurl
themselves at the wire, masculinity in a nutshell.
Seized
by the catching hook, all defiance bleeds away and they squawk horribly,
protesting their fate. This is
where the terror comes in. It is
my job, as the killer, to make sure that their terror is brief, and does not proceed
into agony. I hang them upside
down and stroke their beautiful feathers.
There is an element of science in this; carotid massage, or rubbing the
carotid artery produces a sense of calm.
Once they have stopped struggling I call them by name and tell them what
I know about their personality.
This one was a good forager, that one was a little too rough with the
hens. I call upon their spirit to
accept death with clarity and to seek rebirth in a better setting. Just for good measure I whisper several
names of the Buddha into their ears.
If you believe in reincarnation, then roosters need all the help they
can get. While they are listening
I swiftly insert the point of my knife into the carotid artery.
Done
correctly the bird bleeds out in several heartbeats. There is some residual brain activity that causes dramatic
flapping, but it is a gentler death than removing the head entirely. Sometimes the knife fails to hit the
sweet spot and I have to go back in.
These deaths are less than calm; often the rooster will actually pick
his head up and look right at me as if to say, “this is terrible, why are you
letting me suffer like this?” In
those moments of a bad death, terror becomes agony for the rooster, which in
turn becomes more terror. Even a
being a simple as a rooster has the capacity for these primal emotions.
The
real question of how to best ameliorate agony and terror may seem simple. Don’t kill any roosters. Unfortunately in almost all kinds of
livestock rearing, male animals are less than fortunate. I could make excuses about how it is
cruel to keep too many roosters in one pen. Or how it is cruel to the hens, this is true, as overcrowded
roosters will injure the hens in their frenzy to mate.
I could order female chicks from the catalog, but
truth is if you buy 25 pullets, the hatchery always throws in a few cockerels. Sometimes it is a mistake by the chick
sexer, but most of the time, the extra cockerels are there purposefully, as
live heating packs. Five extra
chicks per twenty-five may help to keep the entire group warm. Consider that most chick orders are
sent out while the weather is still quite cold. I rarely order chicks, preferring to order eggs and incubate
them, or allow my own good stock to replenish itself naturally. As a result, there will be
roosters. During the school year
several classes incubate eggs.
Over the years I have noted an unusually high ratio of roosters hatched
in the school environment, for which I have no good explanation. The good news is that these ‘school’
roosters are very tame and often make my best team players.
What it comes down to is that I hate being attacked
when I enter the chicken yard. And
there is that small matter of the incessant crowing. On the side of the roosters, my closest neighbor has told me
that the roosters have saved him several times when he overslept. The neighbor used to leave at six a.m.,
and the roosters crowed in sufficient time for him to eat and get dressed, even
if his alarm clock failed. What is
fascinating is that this same neighbor has changed shifts, and now leaves at
330 a.m., right on cue at least two roosters have begun to crow at 3 a.m.
For
some time the chief rooster and I had it all worked out. He would attack me and I would strike
him with whatever I happen to be holding.
The extent of both of our injuries depended on how well I was dressed
and or armed. Flip-flops and
shorts are not good rooster clothing.
I tolerated this rooster for a long time because he was very good to his
hens. For the untutored, a ‘good’
rooster does not pick out too many of the hen’s feathers in the throes of
passion, he clucks attentively, locates new food sources, and keeps watch for
hours. When the chickens are
loose, a watchful rooster prevents predation by hawks, in their house; he may
give his life in the act of defending the ladies from a midnight intruder.
For their part, the hens largely ignore the roosters,
unless they make the sound that means, “Come here for I have found something
tasty.” Then they all rush over
and he stands up tall and from my imaginative eye, looks indulgent, like a
parent allowing a child to have a giant hot fudge sundae- and not even asking
for a taste.
Margaret
had a wonderful chief rooster that was just a marshmallow. He did not attack her, and was pleasant
to the hens. “Buffaroo” was a
large golden affair, all poofy buff feathers and crimson trim. My rooster, on the other hand, was
hideous. He was a Turken, which is
a variety developed somewhere in the Russian steppe country. This variety has no feathers on their
neck, under their wings, or over their hips. I have several of these birds, as they are hard-core layers
of dark eggs.
A Turken resembles a turkey on steroids, other days-
particularly when it is raining- a vulture. Either way this rooster was black and grey with this awful
red neck that just cries out for the knife. My research suggests that this unusual feather pattern was
bred for specifically to ease slaughtering and plucking of the carcass. Even as chicks they are particularly
bizarre.
Periodically
the roosters grow too numerous to bear and the aforementioned events take
place. Roosters are the source of
the best brown soup stock. Their
meat is a bit tough; fryers and roasters at the supermarket are capons, or
castrated roosters. Caponizing is
done young, and without anesthesia, the roosters make it easy by carrying their
testicles in their chest. Two
small incisions, a little finger action, and the testicles pop out like
grapes. Our birds are not caponized
as they are not meat birds, but not to let anything go to waste, what doesn’t
make stock can be made into dog food.
(It is also worth noting that an adult rooster has testicles that are as
large as those of a big dog.)
This
weekend was a killing time. The
weather was cooperative, (you laugh, but imagine plucking a bird in a high
wind.) there were only five birds, and it all should have gone smoothly. In fact, four birds died swiftly. The fifth was another story entirely. That bird simply would not die. He brought to mind all the stories
about chickens devoid of their heads, running around terrifying the
neighbors.
I
cannot tell you what went wrong with this killing, only that it was
unnecessarily terrifying for both the bird and me. As the knife went in I could tell there would be a problem. Just as I developed a skill for finding
veins for inserting an intravenous line, so I have a knack for finding an
artery in order to kill. Veins and
arteries have a different feel.
The vein is full of valves, feels meaty. The artery is pulsating yet vibrant. It wiggles away from the offending point
as if aware of its’ fate.
The
calmed bird, hanging, waiting, the sound of my voice calming its spirit, takes
the knife. The artery, on the
other hand, does its level best to get away. Something inside the bird knows it is about to die, and like
all living things, clings to life.
In this case the artery won.
I hit a vein, and then worse yet, punctured the trachea. As the bird struggled to breath,
hideous sounds emanated from the punctured windpipe. Bloody froth accumulated and spit at me.
Knife
at the ready I struck a second time, this time hitting the artery. For reasons not easily explained, this
did not end the bird’s struggle.
Now the bird was flapping and striking me with its wings. Blood and foam were everywhere. It was a moment that called for an axe,
but none was handy, so I retreated.
Back
in the barn I regarded the rooster that had peacefully died only a moment
earlier. Margaret returned from
checking on her father. One look
at me, covered in blood- I never get covered in blood- was enough to prompt an
“Oh dear.” From Margaret this is a multi purpose
statement that covers everything from a woman covered in blood to dropping a
newspaper in a puddle. I love it
the way she makes the phrase carry so many different meanings.
“Oh
dear” is usually accompanied by a
slight shaking of the head.
Margaret is quite tall and elegant, and this movement further defines
the “oh dear”. She shook her head once, but enough to
shake loose a lock of hair. We
stood together in silence and watched the bird. When it was still she approached. “Don’t touch it,” I said, but too late. At the touch of her hand it immediately
sprang to life and began to flap and shake. She ran back to me, now we matched, spattered in blood. It took too many minutes for that
animal to die, and driving home with my chilled carcasses, I critiqued the
event.
Returning home, I sought some solace in visiting my
animals. One of my favorite things
to do is tend all my creatures and flowers. This behavior is healing following a slaughtering; it is
both a chore and a daily gift. I
waddle around handing out treats, food and water. Each day there is something new, a giant dahlia flower nodding
in the early frost, new fluffy coats on the rabbits preparing for winter, a
fresh egg.
Today
death had visited my house.
The rabbit hutch was strangely still at my approach. Not a good sign. Usually the occupants would be
squeaking and leaping at my approach, as guinea pigs and rabbits are always
starving. Opening the top I beheld
that another creature with a knack for finding arteries had been hard at
work. An unknown intruder had
visited and bled out two adult rabbits and two guinea pigs. All these animals were scheduled to
return to their usual school setting that very week. All four were classroom pets, well known and loved by
many. It was carnage. One of the guinea pigs was still alive,
I was not sure if that was better or worse than her being dead.
Shawanda,
a guinea pig colored just like a squirrel, lay on her side, rasping
quietly. Both eye globes were
punctured and loosing fluid. She
had one wound on her throat through which I could hear the raspy sounds of
misplaced air. These were wounds
she could not survive; yet I had no killing left in me for that day. The kind thing would have been to kill
her myself, but I chose to be selfish.
I
made her as comfortable as possible in an indoor cage. She lingered in a deep coma for another
12 hours. Every few hours I would
check on her and struggle to kill her.
Each time I would end up adding another little blanket and walking
away. Her fate was not to die at
my hands, for I had done too much killing that day. Perhaps if that last rooster had not died so badly then I
would have had the courage to kill my pet. Without a doubt I was shaken, and worried that I could
possibly cause Shawanda more agony if I did not get it right.
Lost
that day were an Eastern Cottontail rabbit, Cocoa, a ‘lawnmower’ baby, saved
from that fate nine years prior, a year old Rex rabbit that the kids had not
yet named, an elderly tri-color guinea pig, Chocolate Chip, and of course,
Shawanda. None had been eaten,
simply drained of their blood. It
was the beginning of the “Summer of the Fisher,” but I did not yet possess that
knowledge. The entire structure of
the chicken flock would be altered, including the loss of the hideous Turken
rooster. But that is another tale
for another day, the saga of “Frankenfisher.”
Chicago
was on fire today. It started the
minute I went out to fetch him. He
was standing in his paddock with the girls, baking in the sun. All three horses turned to look as I
walked through the gate. I patted
Sassy as I went by, Chicago and Willow were out of my immediate reach. As I went by Chicago came over to
follow me through the paddock. I
walked out into the field, dropping his halter at the edge of the fence. Some of the jumps had blown down, or
been knocked down by other riders.
I wanted to set them back up, and look for Willow’s shoe, which was
still missing.
Chicago
stood patiently next to his halter, waiting for me to come back. He nickered several times loudly, as if
to remind me that I had forgotten something. Rachel was out picking up manure in the paddock. Your boy is waiting for you!” She laughed. “Look at him, he only has eyes for you!” Indeed, there he was, gazing intently
at me, what does he see? I
returned and put his halter on.
Rachel was still laughing because Chicago was examining me closely. He always does, and again, I am not
sure what sort of information he collects. He checks my pockets first, all of them, with his nose and
lips. I am amazed at the dexterity
of the equine mouth. How a horse
can lip a sugar cube out of a jeans back pocket is nothing short of
miraculous. After he has
ascertained exactly what I am carrying, he sniffs me head to toe. Then he arches his neck and looks at
me, often initiating eye contact.
This is unusual among horses.
He always looks slightly amused, perhaps by what he sees? His breath is warm and smells like
grain and dirt. He blows gently on
my face and looks me in the eye again.
If I do not stop him here he usually licks my face. I have never known a face-licking horse
and am not entirely comfortable with the idea. When I allow the intimacy he licks my jaw line on both
sides, sometimes gently grazing me with his teeth. He will carry this one step further and lick my eyes, which
is one of the strangest feelings on earth. His tongue is very smooth and strong.
Today
I did not let him lick my face because he looked very devilish. “This will be the day he takes my nose
off,” I thought, fighting him away.
He settled for burying his head against my chest and nickering again. Rachel was making fun of me again, but
that is okay, she has an intense love affair with her horse Reef. However, Reef is a mare, so the dynamic
is different. Horses are very
aware of the sex of their rider, and respond differently. As Chicago and I walked out of the
paddock, his neck under my arm, his head pressed into my chest I laughed. Any man who loves a professional horse
person will always play second string.
How could a mere man compete with this sort of loving?
Once
aboard my devil horse I could see the ride would be interesting. He was vibrating with energy; I could
feel his heart thumping against his ribs.
There was no real excuse for this behavior; unless putting my jumping
saddle on him had raised his hopes.
This little horse loves to jump.
He has absolutely no fear, and so far has jumped every ridiculous object
that I have requested of him. Now,
after the jump is a whole other story.
Then he is just as likely to throw his head between his knees and bounce
around like a mad bull. I believe
this is physical manifestation of jumping joy.
Because
of his mania we went out for a hack before tackling the jumps in the
field. I mistakenly thought it
would take the edge off his excitement.
We walked down to the meadow, loose rein, relaxed. The second his right front foot hit the
grass he was off and running. He
had a mission; there was a log jump at the other edge of the meadow. Luckily for me he wanted for us to go
together, otherwise he could have tossed me off right then. So I went along for the ride, gathering
my reins, staying with him powerful and gathered over three fences. Then we tore up the hill and into the
woods. Somewhere along the way I
persuaded him to walk and we bushwhacked through the trees for a while. He was spooking and dancing at the
wind, and the chipmunks, and the dappled light on the ground, and every other
little thing. It was maddening. I
finally got him out on a larger trail and set off in a gentle canter.
This
is one of my favorite things to do, cantering on a trail with hills. Staying in half seat above the saddle,
weight in my feet, balancing with my abdominal muscles, the horse carries us
like a boat over waves. I could do
this for hours. Fortunately,
Chicago likes it as much as I, and displays great courage and
coordination. Some of the hills
are quite steep and rocky, and a less sure-footed animal would have
fallen. I depend on his ability to
balance both of us while cruising along at fifteen to twenty miles an hour.
A
mile or so later his enthusiasm had not dampened. Usually when he is wound up like this a good mile canter or
gallop loosens the knot. I will
feel him drop into the bridle, and his stride becomes steady. Today he felt like prancing, with a
huge hump in his back. Knowing how
readily that hump becomes a buck I was reluctant to turn for home. I did not want to stay out too late;
there were still the jumps in the field calling us home. As I brought him about he curled up his
spine and leapt forward. The
gallop was manageable, so I let him go.
I did not dare go into a half seat, for fear of that buck. He is so athletic that he can buck and
gallop simultaneously, a terrible combination. So I sat on his back as we pounded along. For such a little horse he has a large
stride at the gallop, and he really eats up the ground. Since receiving his back shoes he has
even more thrust behind, and he was throwing up rocks everywhere.
At
the last hill he decided that he needed to communicate his joy to me and jumped
straight into the sky. Because I
was sitting on his back, and felt the wave rising, I was not jarred in the
least. It was some form of
capriole, and I felt his hind legs kick out in merriment. Again, what is he trying to say, and
why? It feels like an affirmation
that this is the way things should be.
That galloping in the woods is one of the finest things imaginable. It would be easy to misinterpret such a
statement, particularly from this horse, famous for dropping riders left and
right.
We
entered the jumping field on that note.
I had already decided to play it very safe, his attitude could get us
both hurt. He immediately tried to
bolt at the oxer, and slipped on the grass. We had to have a little discussion regarding who was
driving. He wants that oxer so
badly; I do not know why it has such a pull for him. Instead I offered him a little cross rail. He was offended by this and trotted
sideways, as if to say, “no, lets go the other way, over the oxer!” I pushed him over the cross rail and he
let out a grumpy buck. With a
little more discussion we did the cross rail until he stopped sulking. As a reward I headed him to the green
and white, and of course he bolted off again and sailed over as if it were a
brick wall. He is such a drama
queen. We jumped five more fences,
and the last one was perfect. He
knew it too, and stopped dead immediately after the fence. He went from gallop, to soar, to
complete stop. The he turned his
neck around and bit my foot. We
were done, no questions asked.
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2008 Relay for Life
- This year we walked in honor of my mom's recent death from Ovarian Cancer. There were three groups, the EKA, the JFK student council, and the O Ambassadors. Together we all raised some serious bucks. It was a truly beautiful experience, one that allowed me to shoo away some of my sorrow. I appreciate all the work that the various teams put into walk, and look forward to walking again in the future. The only drawback was that I got some kind of hideous bacterial infection from the dunk tank. Oh well. It was fun to be in the dunk tank, and despite the infection, I would have stayed in that tank for an hour or more as there seemed to be lots of people ready to put me in the water. Thank you all, for the fund raising, the organizing, the dunking, and all the laughs.
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