I arrive in rubber boots to help Rich and Nancy process their flock. An omnivore, I need to do this. My job: hold each chicken thrust upside down in an open-ended plastic cone while Rich slices its neck. The bird bleeds out. They poop. They kick, sometimes violently. Are they dead? “Yes,” says my intellectual self. “I hope so,” says my heart. It’s rough. I grimace witnessing their stress and wondering what they feel. Next steps: a hot water bath, spinning feather remover, evisceration, cleaning, packaging. Now they look store-bought. Could I? No. I whisper “thank you” to each bird.
Beth Glosten, a retired physician, finds writing a challenging introduction to the other side of her brain. She also enjoys the wilderness and the kitchen. www.riderpilates.com