Chickens, Prologue

banty gamecock rooster

When we had our chickens, we had basically two batches... one 'on purpose' flock of heavier bodied egg/meat birds, usually Buff Orpingtons.  The second flock was the result of someone giving us a gamecock rooster and two little black cochin banty hens.  These little roosters are called gamecocks for a reason... there are only two things they like to do, and fighting is one of them.

These smaller birds were very active, could fly into the rafters of the barn (which is where they preferred to roost).  The hens would get broody very easily and made excellent mothers, leading huge groups of little fluffy chicks out of the barn every so often.  They were dark colored, so avoided the eye of the chicken hawks.  I lost track of what exactly was going on out there, what with all the other things I did, until Mister D came in one day and said that some of those banty roosters would have to go... he had counted 25 of them!  

'To go' in homestead chicken language means 'to go' into the stockpot.  But these little fellas are not much more than bones, feathers, and muscle.  Still, he said we would do the usual routine with these guys until we got rid of some of them.  

The usual routine for butchering chickens around here was that we would get up early and I'd start a big pot of water heating while Mister D went out and chopped the heads off of 6 birds.  Then he would come inside and dress for work and leave.  I would spend most of the rest of the day dressing out the chickens and either canning or freezing them.

This worked well for getting rid of these little birds until one day, for some unaccountable reason, I began to feel sorry for Mister D that he had to get up and kill little birds all the time before going to work.  So I volunteered to do the whole job for him.  I assured him I would be fine, I could manage it, he should just go ahead and dress in his work clothes and I would handle it all.  He wasn't so confident and questioned whether I should do the chopping-the-head-off thing.  He felt like it was man's work.  But I insisted and he finally agreed

Little active birds on a chopping stump are harder to hit than a big, fat, lazy bird.  The target is smaller, the bird is wigglier... you get the idea.  I did OK with the first two birds.  The third rooster, however, was my downfall.  I chopped and yes, I did kinda take the head off.  But only the front half of the head.  He leaped up off the stump and took out across the yard, crowing and zig zagging all over the place.

I was horrified.  He couldn't see, but he could hear and his legs worked just fine.  I grabbed a dish pan and went running after him, thinking I would plunk the dishpan down over the top of him and figure out what to do next.  But when he heard me coming behind him, he would take off like a rocket.

I had a bad go of it.  He didn't wear out or slow down, and once, even when I got the dishpan down over him, he jumped up and knocked it away and took off out across the yard again! I was wearing out and getting desperate, and worse was even beginning to admire his stamina and wishing I didn't have to do him in... but of course that was still going to have to happen.

I went into the house and called Randy at work, and, in tears, begged him to come home and finish off the rooster.  All he would say was, "I'm sorry, baby."  I pleaded with him, I rationalized, I came up with every argument I could think of, every bit of pathetic femininity was put into my conversation, but "I'm sorry, baby" was all he would say.  Finally, I lost my temper and hollered, "Stop saying you're sorry and COME HOME AND KILL THIS BIRD!" ... Hahaha.  That didn't work, either.

I'll interject right here that I like a man who won't let me push him around.  It gives me a sense of security knowing that he'll do what he thinks is best even if I hit him with all I've got.  However, I was having some serious doubts about this philosophy that day...

Well, it all worked out.  I finally caught the rooster, finished the job, couldn't stand to dress him out, though, so he got totally disposed of.  I shakily butchered the other remaining roosters and dressed them all out.  After that, it was Mister D's job to do the butchering.  

I guess if there's a moral to this story, it would have to be to not feel sorry for men who are doing man things... they got it covered.  And also, maybe, when butchering smaller chickens remember to always aim low.

Blessings,

Katrinka