Merciful Dispatch

I had to kill my chicken yesterday.

It wasn't easy, and I had help, but it had to be done.

The girls had noticed for a couple of months now that Dottie, one of our Australorps, wasn't doing well. She always had poop on her hind end, her comb was small and pale, and she weighed significantly less than her two sisters.

A couple of weeks ago, I spoke with our veterinarian who raises chickens of her own. She doesn't treat chickens as part of her practice, and told me she pretty much lets nature take its course with her own flock.

"If one of them dies, I figure, 'Oh, you must have been sick.' "

Now that's a practical outlook on chicken management if I've ever heard one.

Apparently, Dottie was, to put it simply, "not a thrifty chicken." Basically, this means she consumed our resources (food, etc.), but didn't produce anything for us (no eggs).

I was willing to allow her to continue her spendthrift ways, but yesterday she took a turn for the worse. While gathering the eggs Melissa found her semi-lying down in the coop. She didn't get up, didn't follow the other hens out into the yard, she pretty much just lay there.

This is the "not fun" part of animal ownership, yet it's a responsibility nonetheless. I couldn't allow her to suffer, which left only one choice: a quick, painless death.

I never thought I would be able to make such a decision, knowing that I had to put her out of her misery myself. Admittedly, I'm not as attached to the chickens as I am to our cats or dogs, which I'm sure made the task easier. But I had never killed another living creature larger than an insect before.

I knew it would be foolhardy to seek veterinary assistance for her; the expense wasn't warranted and the outcome would likely have been no different, except for a bill.

The girls, of course, were inconsolable, though I know they understood the necessity. They also understood that we couldn't allow her to suffer any longer.

Fortunately, Zachary was home and agreed to help me, as I don't think I could have done it alone. A quick internet search confirmed the best method was a sharp knife and removal of the head.

While I sharpened the knife, Zachary dug a hole for burial.

The girls said goodbye and went in the house, while I carried her to the location we had chosen. She was completely calm in my arms; I held her firmly against a piece of cement while Zachary quickly removed her head. I did keep my eyes closed for that part, though another time I think I'd be able to fully participate.

We placed her in a plastic bag, buried her deeply, and placed several pieces of broken concrete on top of her grave as I surely didn't want anything to dig her up.

I felt strangely calm, knowing we did the right thing. I also felt an odd sense of pride in my ability to properly care for my animals, even when that care was exceedingly difficult.

Dottie had a short, but good life.

She had a quick and painless death.

And she taught all of us an important lesson in responsibility.

She was a good chicken.