Euthanizing chickens

Until about a year ago, the idea of euthanizing chickens did not scare me. I grew up hearing my mother talk about how she, as a child, watched her uncle kill a chicken. He walked around the barnyard with it, speaking to it and holding it in his arms quite tenderly. Suddenly, he flipped the bird, broke its neck and killed it instantly. Whenever she told that story to me, my mom lit up with admiration and wonder at the way her quiet uncle showed compassion and skill when ending an animal’s life. Her story glowed with a quality of redemption.

This is the story I thought of when I pictured euthanizing chickens. Then, before we moved down to the farm, friends generously loaned me books about women who had moved to country. One of them described in great detail how a woman tried in vain to kill a chicken. She was not able to wring its neck successfully, or even to chop its head off with an ax. Finally, in tears, she called her mother-in-law to come finish the deed, which she did.

When I was faced with the job of euthanizing the chicken last summer, I was afraid I would be more like the woman in the book and less like my great-uncle who had years of practice wringing necks. I waited too long to act, and the chicken suffered more than it should have. I will not allow that to happen again.

I was talking about this with my friend Molly who could relate perfectly. A few summers ago, when she needed to kill a seriously injured chicken, she decided that shooting it would be the most humane thing to do. She fetched out the rifle, but when she opened the door to go out to the chicken yard, she was surprised to find a salesman standing on her front step, about to ring her doorbell. Molly is a warm and lovely woman who radiates strength. She has worked as a firefighter and played a season of professional football on one of the country’s few women’s teams. The salesman looked at her and her rifle and started to stammer.

Molly quickly considered what to say. It sounded all wrong to tell a nervous stranger, “It is okay --I am just going to shoot the chicken.” So, she decided to keep things simple. “It is a bad time,” she said, and the salesman literally ran to his car and sped away. Alone again, Molly went to the chicken yard to do the deed and found that it was more complicated than she had expected because chickens move around a lot. They bob their heads and dart this way and that. She was able to finish the job though.

Within the next couple of months, I need some good advice about wringing necks. I feel awkward seeking out that advice, but I suppose the people who have good advice to give me will not think it is a strange or creepy question. If I am called upon this summer to euthanize a chicken, I am going to bring my rifle as a backup plan, and I am going to hope fervently that no salesmen appear while I work.