We’ve got some meat chickens, about fifteen of them. Their days are numbered, we’ll be processing (read: killing / slaughtering) them in a few weeks. Historically I have not done the actual throat slitting necessary to their exsanguination. Generally I watch Abby do it, say the Lord’s prayer, cry, and dig the hole we bury their innards and heads in.
It’s one thing to pass over this task when it’s the odd rooster here or there, but to let Abby, eight months pregnant, do fifteen birds while I cry?
Each bird I don’t kill cements my identity more strongly as someone who doesn’t kill. I’m comfortable with that identity, really. I’ve never been fond of killing even insects.
I once found a baby bat at summer camp. It had fallen and was quite certainly not going to survive. Ascertaining this mortal wound me and perhaps four other ten year olds decided euthanasia was the best course of action.
I myself did not participate. I stood around the corner and wept. I’ve never forgotten that. I can picture the hundred year old camp hall with strange clarity.
I suppose opting out of that death was the first layer of mortar in my non-violent identity.
I was a child then, but I am a child no longer. Challenging myself is something I should be doing, and these are animals bred across centuries for this very purpose.
They are that, but they are also innocent. They have done nothing their entire lives but be chickens to the very best of their abilities. I was about to write that punishing them feels bad but...is it a punishment? Our path is to the grave just as surely, and theirs serves a literally gene-deep purpose. The morality of raising and guiding lineages of animals to be killed and eaten is beyond the scope of this blog post.
It’s one thing to pass over this task when it’s the odd rooster here or there, but to let Abby, eight months pregnant, do fifteen birds while I cry?
Well, it just isn’t manly.
Each bird I don’t kill cements my identity more strongly as someone who doesn’t kill. I’m comfortable with that identity, really. I’ve never been fond of killing even insects.
I once found a baby bat at summer camp. It had fallen and was quite certainly not going to survive. Ascertaining this mortal wound me and perhaps four other ten year olds decided euthanasia was the best course of action.
I myself did not participate. I stood around the corner and wept. I’ve never forgotten that. I can picture the hundred year old camp hall with strange clarity.
I suppose opting out of that death was the first layer of mortar in my non-violent identity.
I was a child then, but I am a child no longer. Challenging myself is something I should be doing, and these are animals bred across centuries for this very purpose.
They are that, but they are also innocent. They have done nothing their entire lives but be chickens to the very best of their abilities. I was about to write that punishing them feels bad but...is it a punishment? Our path is to the grave just as surely, and theirs serves a literally gene-deep purpose. The morality of raising and guiding lineages of animals to be killed and eaten is beyond the scope of this blog post.