Naming chickens

WARNING: Animal death

     As a child, my family owned a chicken coop. It was small, we didn't live on a farm or anything, just a really small town. My mother got the permit, and my father built the coop.

     I was very young, eight at the most, though I have a hard time remembering. Like any child, I was excited about the animals. 

     I was there when we introduced them to their new coop, petting their heads and giggling as they tried to peck me. All hens, all with unique coloration. My mother told me and my older sister to name them, so we did.

     I don't remember all of their names. I remember Ink, the dark black one, Janice, the light brown one, and Shirley, the brownish-black one.

     I knew they were going to die, even as I named them. My parents made that clear to me. Once they stopped laying eggs, they'd be killed for meat. Though, it was explained to me much more gruesomely. I remember my father laughing, and telling me about how funny it is to "watch them run around without a head." I laughed along, feeling nothing. 

     It was my task to gather eggs and replace their water, and I did so excitedly each day. I would run through the yard, into the coop, and greet them each by name. I would talk to them often, mostly about how "mean" my teachers were for doing their job.

     I knew then, too, that they were going to die, but it wasn't the active thought in my mind while I spoke with them. I enjoyed their company, I even let them sit on my lap when I wore jeans.

     I would talk about the chickens with my peers at school, calling them my friends. I would try to invite classmates over, using the chickens as an excuse. "You can come pet my chickens!", I would excitedly offer. No one ever agreed, but I knew it was because they didn't like me, specifically. They definitely thought the chickens were cool. 

     It was spring when my parents decided it was time. They were getting old. My father took me and my sister into the garage, stating it was a learning opportunity. He would teach us to kill and skin a bird.

     My mother would bring the chickens in one by one. I remember the first one to go, Janice. I watched my father cut her head off. My sister immediately cried, running out of the garage and presumably to her bedroom, but I laughed along with my father. He was right, they did run around headless.

     We put the meat into plastic bags to freeze, labeling each bag with their name. Looking back, I'm not sure why we did that, but it made sense at the time.

     The next day, I told my peers all about how my father and I killed the chickens. No wonder they didn't like me, I was so oblivious. I couldn't understand why someone would find it sad. I knew they were going to die, so why should I feel upset? It wasn't a shock.

     We ate chicken for dinner. My sister refused to eat it, crying. We all knew which chicken specifically we were eating, due to the labeling, and we referred to it as such. It wasn't chicken and rice, it was Shirley and rice. My sister hated that, but I still felt nothing.

     It annoyed me at the time. I was the one who spent all the time with the chickens, and I didn't care that we're eating them... So why did she? I accused her of crocodile tears, she hit me. 

     I was diagnosed with ASPD when I hit 18, and it shocked me at the time... But I suppose the signs were always there.