It was hot today and we killed a chicken. He was not a very nice chicken, he was big and he was mean. Not to me, not to people, but to other chickens. Mostly he was afraid of me, and he didn’t want to die. The first time we planned to kill him, he escaped through the coop door. He had a few more sunny days because of that. But we got him today, he fought the whole time, so what we won’t eat of him, we burned. That felt more fitting than going in the ground, a chicken like that. 

There’s nothing I like about killing chickens. Some greet their end with more dignity or resignation that others, some fight, it’s all sad. I wouldn’t say no chicken wants to die, some of the meat birds we raise are ready by the time fall rolls around.

I used to say little prayers for chickens, now I just say nice words. Prayers feel wrong somehow. I feel for them, I mourn them, I feel strange when I see a corpse in my fridge that was a chicken I knew for a year, but they aren’t people at all. They’re chickens.