A Time To Kill

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The Elephant in the Room.

I had planned to write this article the week Charlie Kirk was assassinated. Poor timing, so I decided to wait, reflect, and then offer my original thoughts on harvesting backyard chickens with a little more nuance and care.

And then academics started getting fired for posting about Kirk, 47 ordered flags at half staff (but then skipped his “good friend’s” vigil to go golfing), and then I saw a poster for a candelight vigil for Kirk on my own campus.

A lot of people have been talking about Kirk, his legacy, and how Americans might process his horrific assassination. In my opinion, the best assessment of Charlie Kirk’s legacy (not his death, which I think was awful and unnecessary) and its lasting impact on the collective consciousness of this country is this article by Ta’Nehisi Coates.

I strongly encourage you to read this article for what I think is the perspective I want all USians to engage with. Coates seldom disappoints in his analyses, and this latest is no exception.

Okay, let’s get into what you came for.

Meatlug’s Story

This past spring, we decided to get backyard chickens. Egg prices have skyrocketed, and we are generally attempting to turn our one-acre plot into a suburban homestead. We were generously gifted several dozen potentially fertilized eggs from our friends (thanks, Katy and Brandon) and incubated them, resulting in five cute little chicks.

It took some time for them to develop into their adult form, and even by the time I left for my three-week trip in May, we were only certain that one of the five was likely to be a rooster. The kids gave each chick a name after themselves or their friends. Later, those names were changed to characters from the How to Train Your Dragon movies and show.

“MoMo Nugget”, the chick grew into Meatlug the rooster, who I didn’t recognize after I returned from my travels. He was huge, and his feather patterns were unfamiliar to me. The last shreds of doubt about Meatlug’s sex evaporated when he became the first of our flock to crow in the morning.

We ended up with three roosters out of ten total chicks (we incubated another egg and picked up four chicks from Tractor Supply), and the eldest of the three, Toothless, was the clear dominant male…at first.

What became clear after a month, was that Meatlug was maturing faster than Toothless, and that he was just bigger. Meatlug’s rooster feathers grew longer than Toothless’ feathers, and Meatlug showed a relentless interest in the hens.

Things reached a peak when Meatlug started chasing our kids, even when they let the birds out in the morning or when the kids got close.

“I know we named Meatlug after me, but I’m okay if we eat him.”

My eldest proclaimed after observing Meatlug force himself on one of the hens.

Meatlug had a single-minded focus, and he was determined to achieve his goal. It stressed us out, and more importantly, his behavior stressed the hens out. To add insult to injury, Meatlug was so dedicated to procreation that he didn’t pay attention to other things like predators or squabbles that occasionally broke out in the pecking order of hens.

Toothless was and is the idea rooster. Not overly aggressive with the ladies and extremely vigilant and protective. He doesn’t chase the kids, and he generally minds his business and isn’t too loud.

Meatlug was not a great fit for us alive, so we ate him.

Meatlug’s Death and Legacy

I was surprised my son stuck around for the entire process. Originally, he said he didn’t want to be there for Meatlug’s demise, but curiosity got the better of him, and I’m glad he was there to witness.

Chickens are challenging to catch, but once you have them in hand, they tend to calm down considerably. I used a towel to corral and blindfold Meatlug, remembering from my work with raptors that birds are orders of magnitude calmer when they can’t see. Our overly aggressive rooster was no exception.

The next step was to tie his feet together and then carry him upside down to the screw I had placed in the fence to hang him by his feet. By the time I had my blade out, Meatlug was glazy-eyed from the blood rushing to his head.

“Thank you, Meatlug, for teaching us about how to raise chickens. Thank you for being part of our family. I’m sorry that your life is ending here, but we will make good use of your body.”

My knife was not sharp enough, but I managed two small cuts on either side of his neck. Soon my hand was slick with warm chicken blood, and roughly three minutes later, Meatlug was no longer alive. My son and I stood there as he died, determined to respect the moment and the lesson. I think we did right by Meatlug in his killing. He barely flinched during my cuts and was unconscious before bleeding out entirely.

Plucking and gutting went much more smoothly than I thought it would. I had only ever plucked and gutted a chicken once before, and I couldn’t clearly remember that process. The large pot of water maintained the right temperature — neither too hot, so the feathers do not fuse to the skin, nor too cold, so the feathers do not remain difficult to pull out.

Gutting a chicken is like gutting a deer or any other animal relative you’d want to eat; take off the head, make a shallow incision in the abdomen, open things up by cutting towards the sternum, pull everything out from the esophagus down to the booty hole.

The rest of the process was even more familiar.

I was concerned that Meatlug’s death would change my relationship with the remaining birds in the flock. He had to go, but I would be sad if the birds we kept became more wary of me; an understandable response. But then I turned around after quartering the troublesome rooster and found them attempting to consume said rooster’s innards that I had placed in a bucket in the yard. And no, I wasn’t trying to make an example of Meatlug; I was attempting to allow the yellow jackets to feed away from my workstation.

The very next day, one of our hens laid her first egg. Since harvesting Meatlug, the flock has seemed far less stressed. We are averaging about one egg laid per day, and the hens willingly mate with Toothless. Generally, things are better on our little homestead.

The Wild Kitchen and the necessity of death.

We ate meatlug that evening for dinner, which was a mistake.

Freshly killed chicken is tough! I failed to use my knowledge of animal physiology to make Meatlug’s sacrifice less wasteful. We ate him at the height of rigor mortis. I’ve never eaten any poultry that was tougher than that damn chicken! Meatlug flipped us the bird in life and in death.

I was concerned that I’d have a more negative emotional response to harvesting Meatlug. I remember holding him as a chick and him struggling to break out of his shell. I remember worrying that, as the last of the older of our two cohorts to hatch, he would be picked on.

As is the case with so many things, the ones we worry about most end up being our best teachers. As Meatlug grew, he showed me that my worries about him as a baby were unfounded. His hatchmates showed me that they didn’t really miss him. I didn’t have cause to be concerned about the others treating him poorly because he became the aggressor as an adult.

Once again, being open to the lessons that the relatives who we consume have to offer broadens and changes your perspective on food and relations. I know so much more about chickens, the animal I consume more often than any other relative. I understand a little bit more about their culture, their personalities, their care and curiosities, than I ever would have otherwise.

This journey has been incredible, and it’s just beginning. I’m sorry Meatlug wasn’t able to live a longer life, and I’m sorry we weren’t able to make better use of his body. Hopefully, this story of his life and the responsibility we have taken on to care for his kin will be enough to stay in good relations. I don’t know that it will, but we tried and will continue to try to do right by him.

Thanks for reading!

-Jonathan