the long yellow mile
The somber clouds of cigarette smoke are billowing out of the holding pen. The clucking, the panic and the pleas have all subsided as the condemned have accepted their fate. A few last minute romps are taking place, there are some tears, some "I love you's" and "It's not fair, but in the next life we will be together's", but mostly there are just chickens anxiously rocking back in forth in place. Their fate - their doom - mere moments away.
It should be painless and, for the most part, humane. Each chicken will be led from their holding cell down a long yellow corridor known as the "yellow mile" to another holding cell which looks strikingly similiar to a bag. There the chicken will be preped for it's final move - into death. Their heads and one of their legs will be shaved and a diaper will be put on under their feathers. A holy man of their chosing will be called to their side and each chicken will be allowed a final confession or prayer. Then there will be a few hours set aside for a family visit and when that time has passed, they will be taken to their last supper - fattening corn.
When their number is called, each chicken will be walked into a "shower room" thinking that they will be deloused... Wait! No, sorry.
When their number is called, each chicken will be asked to stick their hand into a knot hole in the "stump" to test their manhood....No, shit, that's not it either.
When their number is called, each chicken will be carted through an angry crowd of onlookers who will throw rotten veggies at them as they pass by. It's very insulting gesture but it makes a great garnish for later. The chicken will be led up a flight of stairs, a noose put around it's tiny little neck and then... God Damnit!
Okay, number called, yeah, yeah, yeah... Chickens are taken from the bag... A cloaked man with a calloused heart will grab their necks.... a quick TWIST and a CRACK and it's all over. Chicken death. One moment, the literal cock of the walk, then next - cordon bleu on a bed of wild rice.
Yes, that time has arrived. The concentration camp has been erected and the chickens are being rounded up and driven to their doom. But, don't cry for these chickens, as much damage as they have caused around the ponderosa in the course of their short lives, their demise is seen as getting off easy. There is really no love for these chickens, anywhere. The constant crowing, the shiting, the destruction of gardens, flowers and all things left on the ground (such as lumber) and the constant fighting have all contributed to the rapidly and whole heartedly reached conclusion that they need to die.
I shall not be a part of the actual death. I will, however, be a part of the she-loves-me-she-loves-me-not plucking process. After that, I am not sure what to do as I have never killed birds without using my car before. It would seem that it might be easier to just use the car when you consider how affective that method really is. Neck twisting has been voted as the best course of action and the bloody masacre known as "The Red Dawn" will be remembered for years to come.
These are animals that will taste good and I am looking forward to the first corpse dipped into hot grease covered in batter. As for those that will live to see another day, I'm sure the imagery of their former friends dying will keep them in line. It's either produce eggs or take that walk down the yellow mile. Soon after the demise of well over half the flock, twenty-five more chicks are scheduled to arrive. With any luck, the surviving chickens will keep the young ones in line and tell them the horror stories of what happens to bad little chicks if they crow too much or destroy too much flora and fauna. Wild stories of "The Red Dawn" will be whispered in the coop every night and the chickens will walk that straight and narrow line or find themselves walking another line. A long yellow one.
Life in a coop can't be all that stimulating and for those chickens that do make the cut and get to live on, life inside a pen will be worse than death. To know freedom and then have it taken away so violently. Which is worse; a neck twisting or a life in a twelve by twelve cell squeezing out eggs every day to insure that you don't get shanked in the shower or bum rushed by the "hard ladies" of layer block two? I am not sure that the life we provide for these chickens is ideal, but I sure do appreciate them when they are BBQ'ed, so I guess I can't show heart for something that I am just going to use for food eventually.
"Sometimes, dead is better."
It should be painless and, for the most part, humane. Each chicken will be led from their holding cell down a long yellow corridor known as the "yellow mile" to another holding cell which looks strikingly similiar to a bag. There the chicken will be preped for it's final move - into death. Their heads and one of their legs will be shaved and a diaper will be put on under their feathers. A holy man of their chosing will be called to their side and each chicken will be allowed a final confession or prayer. Then there will be a few hours set aside for a family visit and when that time has passed, they will be taken to their last supper - fattening corn.
When their number is called, each chicken will be walked into a "shower room" thinking that they will be deloused... Wait! No, sorry.
When their number is called, each chicken will be asked to stick their hand into a knot hole in the "stump" to test their manhood....No, shit, that's not it either.
When their number is called, each chicken will be carted through an angry crowd of onlookers who will throw rotten veggies at them as they pass by. It's very insulting gesture but it makes a great garnish for later. The chicken will be led up a flight of stairs, a noose put around it's tiny little neck and then... God Damnit!
Okay, number called, yeah, yeah, yeah... Chickens are taken from the bag... A cloaked man with a calloused heart will grab their necks.... a quick TWIST and a CRACK and it's all over. Chicken death. One moment, the literal cock of the walk, then next - cordon bleu on a bed of wild rice.
Yes, that time has arrived. The concentration camp has been erected and the chickens are being rounded up and driven to their doom. But, don't cry for these chickens, as much damage as they have caused around the ponderosa in the course of their short lives, their demise is seen as getting off easy. There is really no love for these chickens, anywhere. The constant crowing, the shiting, the destruction of gardens, flowers and all things left on the ground (such as lumber) and the constant fighting have all contributed to the rapidly and whole heartedly reached conclusion that they need to die.
I shall not be a part of the actual death. I will, however, be a part of the she-loves-me-she-loves-me-not plucking process. After that, I am not sure what to do as I have never killed birds without using my car before. It would seem that it might be easier to just use the car when you consider how affective that method really is. Neck twisting has been voted as the best course of action and the bloody masacre known as "The Red Dawn" will be remembered for years to come.
These are animals that will taste good and I am looking forward to the first corpse dipped into hot grease covered in batter. As for those that will live to see another day, I'm sure the imagery of their former friends dying will keep them in line. It's either produce eggs or take that walk down the yellow mile. Soon after the demise of well over half the flock, twenty-five more chicks are scheduled to arrive. With any luck, the surviving chickens will keep the young ones in line and tell them the horror stories of what happens to bad little chicks if they crow too much or destroy too much flora and fauna. Wild stories of "The Red Dawn" will be whispered in the coop every night and the chickens will walk that straight and narrow line or find themselves walking another line. A long yellow one.
Life in a coop can't be all that stimulating and for those chickens that do make the cut and get to live on, life inside a pen will be worse than death. To know freedom and then have it taken away so violently. Which is worse; a neck twisting or a life in a twelve by twelve cell squeezing out eggs every day to insure that you don't get shanked in the shower or bum rushed by the "hard ladies" of layer block two? I am not sure that the life we provide for these chickens is ideal, but I sure do appreciate them when they are BBQ'ed, so I guess I can't show heart for something that I am just going to use for food eventually.
"Sometimes, dead is better."
posted by Daniel Loomis | 7:22 PM
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