I had to kill a chicken this morning. I know to most people this doesn't sound like much. Seems like everyone has some tale of watching their grandmother or great-aunt or someone chopping the head off a chicken at the family farm and then watching the thing run and flap around.For me, this was sort of a pet, however, and it's really rather painful to take the life of something that has relied on you for food and shelter.
Last week I noticed the Diva was having trouble moving around her pen, as if her one leg were hurting, though there was nothing visibly wrong with her. Though I purposely did not name our chickens so as not to grow too attached to them (especially after the dogs attacked and ate our first batch of pullets), our bantam golden seabright earned her monikerby acting bigger than she was. I hoped it was a minor injury. The next day she seemed worse, not wanting to leave the nesting box or move much at all. I had to make a decision regarding taking her to the vet. Like I said, to me the chickens are "sort of" pets. They rank somewhere between our dogs and the goldfish in our backyard pond. They don't have names, but I've committed to taking care of them even after it turns out they haven't been the best egg-layers. I've said that I don't want to end up running a retirement home for hens when they stop laying, but my threats of putting them in the stew pot have been pretty empty, not to mention then hens don't lay any better when faced with such threats anyway. So while I had some concern for finding out exactly what was wrong from the vet, I also told myself that if I am going to take care of chickens I will also have to face being able to take care of one, one way or another, when they are sick.
The next day, and perhaps this was only wishful thinking, the Diva seemed better. She was out of her box voluntarily, and while still tottering around sort of hopping on one leg, she was eating and drinking. I really did have hope she was going to get better. Over the next two days, however, I saw it was just an illusion and my hope in her recovering turned to hope that she would pass peacefully. I had to help her out to get to her water, and she stopped eating except for a little leftover cooked corn we had. This morning I found her outside the box laying on her side, unable to get up on her own.
I knew what had to be done. I had read about the quickest, most humane way of killing a chicken that you intend to butcher by wringing its neck. I've seen the debate online of whether an axe is better. I frankly didn't think I could use a hatchet without causing undue stress on us both. Not that I intended to butcher her either, I just mean that I am sure a vet could administer some injection to kill a chicken, but for me and my aspirations of one day actually being a gentleman farmer, that wasn't practical. The Diva had suprisingly been the best layer of the first three hens we got, the other two being Welsummers which started off laying well but have been terribly inconsistent the past year. The little seabright's eggs, too, were surprisingly large in comparison to her little pigeon-sized body. They would probably qualify as USDA 'medium' sized eggs. Well now she was going to provide one last gift: my first lesson on killing an animal I had raised.
I picked her up and held her close to my chest, which calmed her. I held her like that for a moment to say a goodbye then tilted her head-down. Inverting a chicken like this will calm them, and I'd done this before when wanting to check her for disease and injury. I took her whole head in my hand, and she pulled it back away. For that one instant I wasn't sure that I could go through with it, but I couldn't leave her in pain. I grasped her hand a bit more firmly and with a little surge of violence twisted. I felt the bones in her neck break and she gave a quick kick and stopped. I let go of her head and looked at her. Her eyes were open. "Oh please tell me you're dead," I begged in my head. She blinked, but otherwise did not move. "Dammit." I twisted again and pulled down quickly on her head. I had been afraid to really yank before, afraid that the head would come off. This time, though, I felt the spinal column separate, and with her head still on she was dead. She kicked for about 20 seconds then. It was a rhythmic spasm that was obviously simply a nervous reaction, but I still held her against me. It stopped and I looked and all the color and life was gone from her.
She really did look at peace. I felt horrible that her death wasn't as quick as I hoped it was going to be but am convinced it was painless apart from that initial kick. Even writing this account, I didn't want to admit that it took two tries, but I feel like this was the lesson she gifted me with and that it would be better to share the information so that other people wouldn't make this same mistake.
It's sort of an empty feeling to be putting something that was alive moments ago into a body bag of sorts, as in a gallon-sized Ziploc-brand bag, and then into a shoe box to bury. I think that empty feeling is appropriate -- a life has gone out of this world, and I'm the one who took it. In that bag and then in the box she looked like a fake bird, something you'd find at the hobby shop to add to your homemade wreath. I'm glad though she isn't suffering and also that my emotional barometer seems to be calibrated correctly: I'm sad she is gone, glad she didn't needlessly suffer, humiliated that I didn't get it done right, proud I could do it at all and confident that in the future I can... that I can kill a chicken.
