A Chicken Story by Alanna

So, story time was great fun, not demeaning to my intellect in any way...(do YOU know what sound a cow makes????)

Then,

arriving home, children gleefully singing "the wheels on the bus" in the back seats, there is Lucy(fer) licking her chops like the big bad wolf over the sluggish lump of a chicken. I run from the car, kicking Lucy toward the house and off the bird, children wide-eyed stare from the windows. Chicken is suffering, struggling to breathe and still holding on, but with very little skin on its back. I curse Lucy, go back to the car, in my most giddy voice tell everyone, "Mommy/Auntie has to take care of the bock bock who doesn't feel good, be right back!" and close them in.

Enter the house, trip over Lucy. Dog is desperate to stuff nose back into the cavity of the chicken. Curse her again. Retrieve gun from cabinet. Shake head at the number of firearms available for the job. Choose 20 gauge shotgun. Give a nod to John Wayne. Exit house.

With the gun opened draping in a "v" over my elbow, I lift the poor chicken gently. It does not fuss much, seems to have resigned to its fate. Now all 6 eyes bug at me from the car; I pretend that they aren't watching and that I don't have a shotgun dangling from one arm, chicken in my hands, and two shells in my pocket. I try to console the chicken, telling her that it's all for the best, that I am sorry, that should I place her back in the chicken house the other chickens will devour her. I think she understands because I see her shut her eyes gently, as if to tell me she does not blame me. Choosing a spot based on the safety of its background elements, the chicken is placed out in the open. I may as well paint a target around her; red circle, white circle, chicken in the center. The other chickens scurry toward the edge of the pen with curiosity. They do the same thing when I come to bring them the leftover food. Idiots.

My dansko clogs do not seem the appropriate footwear to walk back 15 paces for a good shot. I have on dangling earrings and they clink against the butt of the gun tucked into my shoulder. The chicken seems in silent prayer, unmoving and eyes partially closed, beak pulsing gently with each breath. I am sure she knows what is coming. For a fleeting second I don't think myself much different from a sharpshooter; this weird emotion of knowing you're going to kill something, how easy it is. I aim slowly as I fear a shot that simply wounds her further. The shot is loud and hard against my shoulder but it doesn't register as such. The chicken flips from impact. I shoot again to be sure (which is literally overkill) and this time I hear the ringing echo. I retrieve her, and she is definitely dead which makes me feel oddly pleased. This a bizarre salvation, humane. The other chickens have lost their curiosity and replaced it with fear, hold up inside the chicken house.

Renter the house, trip on Lucy again. Wish she were less of a dog, curse her carnivorous pant. Replace gun in cabinet. Rethink my choice of chicken breast for tonight's dinner. Go back out to collect the babies.

So now I feel an embarrassing and somewhat revolting pride, like I am some super-mom who can do it all. Even kill, should the opportunity present itself. Awesome.