Blood Spatters

In terms of weather, today was a perfect autumn day.  The husband, the mother and I were all tired from working hard in the yard yesterday, so we spent the morning and the early afternoon working on theater and charity work.  

At about 2:00, I realized we hadn't let the chickens out, so the husband headed down to the coop to do just that.  When he did, he realized that one of the chickens was not doing well.  This particular chicken has always stood out from the rest.  She was a big white chicken and she had been bred specifically for meat.  When we purchased her, we didn't know exactly what that meant.  Through research, the husband soon discovered that it meant she would only have a lifespan of one year, and it meant that she was going to get fatter and fatter during that year.  We owned her for a total of two and a half months, and though she was a total bitch to the rest of the chickens, prompting jokes about eating her and the nickname of a certain unsavory character that one of us used to work for, she was always nice to us.  

And she enjoyed her life.  She ran around eating and searching for bugs with gusto.  Over the last three weeks, she began going downhill.  Not sick.  Just aging basically.  We debated a lot about the best time to dispatch her, and we all agreed that we wanted to do it before she did much suffering but not while she could still enjoy life.  Today was a crossroads.  She was limping a bit, and she fell over a couple of times.  So we decided it was time.

The husband sharpened up a knife and cooked up some spaghetti.  Spaghetti wiggles like worms and the chickens just love is.  We decided it would be a nice last meal for the white chicken.  Mom distracted the other chickens with their portion of the spaghetti.  The husband and I went over to the white chicken, who happened to be on her own.  We fed her some spaghetti.  She was struggling a bit with eating, but she enjoyed it.  After a few moments, the husband picked her up, and we carried her to the bottom of our property out of sight of the other chickens.  

The husband covered her eyes and did the deed.  It was fast and she didn't make a sound.  She didn't struggle.  I was amazed to be honest.  Maybe it was overkill, but the husband held on to her head, eyes covered, and stroked it soothingly until we were certain she was completely gone.  We stood and watched as her body flailed around managing to land in one of the more difficult spots to reach in the woods.  

It was then that I realized I'd forgotten the pick with which we planned to dig a hole for the remains.  I went back to get the pick and the husband began the butchering process.  She wasn't sick after all, just old.  And though we liked her, it would be an awful waste of meat to just bury her when we could all benefit from her.  

I walked up the hill, grabbed the pick and turned back.  There was the husband, walking up the hill, empty handed.  I walked over, still a bit dazed from trying not to be emotional regarding the chicken.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"Not much.  Just need a bit of medical attention."

"Why?"

"I cut my finger."

"How badly?"

What followed was a dialogue wherein my husband insisted that it was merely a flesh wound (he cut it to the bone), I worried and helped him clean it up.  He made fun of me because I used to be a medic.  I declared conflict of interest.  We both found out that the mom had no first aid supplies on hand, a holdover from her days in the word of faith movement.  Long story.

Thus, I found myself driving to Walmart with the express intention of getting two bottles of wine and plenty of bandages.  On the way to Walmart, I tried to calm down. My rational mind told me he was going to be just fine and that he didn't really need stitches.  The wife in me wanted to sob and freak out, partly due to the effort of being tough while assisting in the dispatch of the chicken.

Just before arriving to Walmart, I found myself thinking about how amazing it was that he'd cut the head off that chicken and there hadn't been a spray of blood.  Then it occurred to me that was impossible in a live chicken.  I looked down.  Sure enough, there were blood spatters all over my jeans.  I thought about the lovely emails that go around showing the "typical" Walmart shopper. Then I thought about the fact that it's almost Halloween.  Then I laughed, hopped out of the car and went in.  I have to be honest.  I wasn't the least bit surprised when no one in the store noticed at all.

I got my supplies and drove back home.  Due to the circumstances of the husband's screw up - yes, he was cutting improperly and did this to himself - the mom had the fun job of plucking and butchering the chicken.  She didn't want to screw up and make a mess that couldn't be cleaned up easily, so she hopped in her tub and did the deed there.  When I went downstairs, I wondered how she had avoided throwing up.  The husband couldn't even smell it.

Now, the mom and I are relaxing with a glass of wine while the husband drinks his wine, nurses his finger, and cooks up some yummy chicken chili.  When we dine tonight, it will all have been worth it.