Chicken Catch a Story

[Goat Servant]

The other day I received a postcard from a friend overseas. It made me homesick for her so I called her. She said she was hard up for a chicken story.
Writing a chicken story all started out innocently enough but quickly got out of hand once a few slight embellishments inserted here & there would be more entertaining, yet not too far from the truth.

We tried to butcher the Cornish Crosses a few weeks ago. We started out with lofty plans but got our ideals butchered instead.
The date was set a number of times only to be delayed by a combination of dismal weather and baseball games on TV but mostly it was just pure unadulterated procrastination. The job neither one of us wanted to do but somebody was going to have to bite the hatchet and be da man.
The sky that afternoon did not look good. The grainless day of reaping had not quite come to an end but there was still enough daylight to accomplish what needed to be done.
In the wings, quietly but hungerly residing were the individuals who were hatched to a specific mission. A mission calling not for bravery or bravado but brevity.
Bob & Nan were not so quietly discussing the ramifications. The time was ripe they could not deny it. The time was past due & they knew it. The water was boiling the hatchet sharp. Daylight was fading fast & the clouds forboding. The decision was finally made to end four lives.

[Goat Servant]

The hero of our story paced & shook his head. The pit of his stomach turned & his face, grimmacing with the threat of nausea, lost its color.
"Nan I just cant do this!" He wailed.
With bird in hand she encouraged him.
"Sure you can honey, watch this."
But instead they continued the debate, pushing time limits, tossing logistics, excuses & the gesticulating chicken back & forth as Bob purposely sauntered the yard to detach himself from the inevidible. He was probably praying for a way out. Or was he shaking off the willies?
In any case the chickens kept growing. Over the past few weeks they had continually broken previous feed consumption records, running up feed bills & generally throwing thier weight around.
Not only that, they were slightly overweight & would begin having heart attacks at any given moment. Rasing Cornish Crosses is a scientific art requiring special feeding proper light exposure dry bedding & good music doesn't hurt but it's all a wasted investment if they arent harvested at the moment of superb ripeness. Otherwise their body weight overworks the internal organs & voila, a stock market crash.
Nan waited as Bob recovered from his queesiness. He announced that he had to get to town for ice cream while she envisioned the promise of homegrown chicken dinner. It was well worth all the work even if it did cost an arm & a leg, not to mention their marriage.
She sighed in resignation & took up the instrument of death when the simple life of yesteryear passed through.

[Goat Servant]

She never developed emotional ties with a barnful of some 300 4-H chickens that her older brother Hank was raising. It's just not humanly possible to bond with those numbers even if you are a kid. Maybe a pair of ducks named Henry & Lulu.
Or even baby brother who talked just like them. Mom was always frusterated cause she didnt understand duck language & Nan took it upon herself to serve as translator. At the county fair he knew the difference between Henry & Lulu and all the other ducks. Mom didnt believe it until she read the name tags & let little Stevie out if he promised to stop eating slugs.
In those days entertainment was watching Dad lop heads like he was working in a factory that paid by the mile for headless meals careening around the yard. Making bets as to which one would stay on its feet the longest. Sitting for hours plucking with Hank, awed not only at the rapidity of his work but also at the high turnover of dogs that were never around for very long cause the were always weaseling their way into the barn.
Then there were the mostly true stories of chicken hawks & cougars & the mama racoon that Hank shot, leaving babies to adopt for a whole week.
Mom refused to learn even basic Racoonise & hauled them to the zoo. She was always a city girl at heart. Nan managed to escape but how much trouble can baby racoons be if they're kept out back in a tent?
And how did the simple life get so compicated?
Somehow the fundamentals of killing a few stupid chickens got all discombuberated during a thirty year sabattical. And where is extra family when they're needed!?
"OK honey here we go, this is how it's done so watch carefully!"
"You're talking like a chicken again, Nan, I can't understand you."
Kawack!
"Nan, you missed."
"Oh. Maybe I should have kept my eyes open".
KAWACK!
"How come his head is still halfway on? I thought you said you did this before."
KAWACK KAWACK!!
"Never mind, hand me another one."
With an impressive motion bordering on an art form she even fooled herself. Bob stepped to the block to have a go at it. The subsequent exchange was who was going to finish off victims three & four.
Into the night they scalded plucked & gutted. Somehow the marriage survived. Would the still living twenty birds defy the odds?
Bob and Nan agreed it would be in everyone's best interest to pay someone to finish the rest.
As soon as number four was in the fridge the phone rang for the first time in weeks.
"Dad? Hi! Uh, funny you should call....."

[mouso]

So, how are the ones who escaped the chopping block?