If you love something Pt. II

A yellow eye with a dilated pupil looked back at me. It was a warm day in early August but already the smell of fall dampness permeated the forest. I thanked the chicken for the eggs that it had given me and stroked it's silky feathers a few more times. Then I placed this hen, this living creature, on the ground in the shade of a tree and walked away. If you love something set it free, but that's not really what was happening. What did I just do and why did it not sit quite right with me?

I remember when I got this chicken, it's quite humorous and worth relating. During the previous summer I had worked part time at the State Park. It was a part time job, the duties were negligible but the interactions with people made it worthwhile. One such friendship knew of my chicken keeping ways and asked me one day, 'are you interested in about twenty free chickens?' I thought about it, perhaps not long enough, and said yes. Now I had to pick up these chickens which presented a problem, I had no idea how to get them from point A to point B. Some ideas were bandied about but in the end the back of my pick-up truck became a rather large chicken cage. A piece of fencing was fastened to a couple two by fours, which was then stretched across the top of the truck bed.

On the day I was meant to pick up the chickens I called my friend to come along, promising a ridiculous experience. He was game. We arrived at a farmhouse about ten miles west of town and I rang the doorbell. After some niceties were exchanged she told us to drive through their yard and park near the fence. Upon parking I immediately noticed that the chickens were running around loose and not in the coop as I had hoped. In addition to the chickens in the barnyard there were also turkeys, guinea hens, pigs, goats, and cattle. Slowly the family filtered out of the back door of their house and a strategy was discussed. Those of you who have seen an adult human chasing chickens realizes the level of folly involved in this endeavor. This foolishness is only made more apparent by doing it with people you just met. Slowly the back of the truck began filling with the clucking of confused chickens. Upon a quick inspection, there were substantially more than twenty chickens and such a motley bunch could only be the result of a child-like indulgence in the many flavors of chicken. The owner of these chickens then asked me if I was interested in some guinea hens, if not, how about a goat? I politely declined, already feeling overwhelmed at the amount of chicken filling the back of my truck.

It feels like it should be against the law to speed down the highway at sixty five miles per hour with the back of your truck full of chickens. Sometimes the comic nature of reality can be too much for me and I giggle uncontrollably. This was one of those times. Upon arriving home the back of the truck was emptied and hosed out. While moving the chickens out of the truck it was determined that there were indeed forty and not twenty. It was clear that that many chickens could not be supported all winter in addition to the current flock so a decision was made to put half in the freezer. But how to choose? There was one group of six chickens that were clearly bred for laying eggs due to their small bodies and unappetizing looking breasts. They were buff colored with small combs and wattles; I never did take the time to identify their breed. These chickens were spared. The life of a chicken is more complex than most people realize, sure they have a limited vocabulary (eight to twelve meaningful terms depending on who you talk to) but a complex social order does exist and a daily routine. For almost a year these chickens were a part of the flock, surviving such ordeals as owl attacks and engaging in those essential activities such as scratching and pecking the ground.

My mother was the first to notice that one of these chickens wasn't acting right. Upon further investigation I saw that it wasn't acting at all. You could walk right up to it in broad daylight and it stood there glassy eyed. Pick it up and it still just starred off into the distance. I moved it into the shade and set a food and water dish in front of it. It pecked at the food but in a kind of sideways way with closed beak that insured no food would enter. A decision was made to quarantine the chicken away from the others. Chicken illnesses are often incomprehensible. It was clear a flock full of listless glass eyed chickens, although child friendly, was not desirable. After several days with no changes in the chickens condition a decision had to be made. Choice one: kill the chicken. Choice two: take the chicken out to the woods and set it free. Both choices clearly have the same result: death. I kill chickens often but I kill to eat. This was different.

I've never killed out of mercy, it doesn't seem right. In retrospect I wish I would have. I condemned that chicken to death even if I didn't do it with a knife. Instead another animal would surely find it in the night, kill it and drag it off to feed. On a certain level this scenario appeals to my sensibilities, 'survival of the fittest'. Chickens are not designed to survive though. Especially a chicken stricken with illness. Was this chickens end more painful due to her natural euthanasia? I think so. On another level it was about keeping hope alive, not admitting to myself the doomed nature of this chicken.

As I walked away I felt my cowardice. I looked back at the chicken, hoping to see it sense the dire nature of it's fate and come following after me in a heart wrenching turnabout. The last minute call from the governor that saves the inmate on death row. The voice of God calling to Abraham telling him to spare Isaac's life. Instead, it continued blankly looking straight ahead. I returned the next day to find my chicken had vanished.