Death of a Rooster

That goat has devil eyes

Before I begin to describe my next escapade, I’d like to go off on a bit of a tangent. If you aren’t a vegetarian, you have no reason to judge me, because, as a chicken eater, you are a killer, by proxy. Furthermore, even if you buy only organic, I can guarantee, with almost 100% accuracy, that our chickens have led better lives than the ones you eat. For starters, our birds are practically hand raised, allowed to live their lives freely, doing whatever  it is that chickens do (which almost entirely consists of defecating, having sex, and foraging for food). Additionally, they live the lives of kings, eating leftovers from meals the family couldn’t finish. If chickens are not to be eaten, do they have some sort of intrinsic value that renders them immune from human consumption? I think not. Living on a farm has equipped me with a new outlook regarding farm animals, which is why I had no qualms with beheading our rooster. With an axe. At present, the sight of a chicken fills with me loathsome thoughts. Why do I dislike chickens? I could go on a digression about this topic, but I’ll keep it short. Chickens have devil eyes, they make dinosaur noises, are always pooing everywhere and gang-banging each other, and repeatedly try to break into the house; they walk about bobbing their heads like idiots, and, lastly and most importantly, the rooster had a bad habit of waking me up every morning at 5 a.m.; his crowing would continue until about 6 in the morning, by which time I was already awake and unable to fall back into a peaceful slumber. Well, no longer. Revenge is sweet my friend, and takes the form of me, with an axe instead of a scythe, playing the part of the Grim Reaper.

Thus began the demise of the aggravating rooster. My host mother grabbed him from a cage, where he was placed earlier after capture, and his head was laid on a tree stump, with his legs held from behind. I was prompted to begin the death ritual. The first time I swung the axe, I was a bit nervous, and I missed, succeeding in only cutting off a few feathers. The second try was a success, and off came the roosters head. The Yeah Yeah Yeahs were right, “off with it! Heads will roll!” Blood began to flow from the decapitated head, and some trickled onto my shoe. After this deed was done, the headless rooster was brought to a table where the blood was allowed to drain for several minutes. Once this task was completed, the bird was brought over to a pot of boiling water, soaked, and then placed on a table to be deplucked. The deplucking process took several minutes, and was a disgusting task. This is where my help ceded, as Deda (host mother) took over and begin to cut up the bird to prepare for supper. It was eaten that afternoon, in a sort of soupy concoction; he was delicious. 

I hate this chicken. It's always breaking into the house

It's payback time. Don't judge...you know you love popeyes

De-plucking is a messy process

blood on my shoe

Another source of contention includes the goats, although they’re nowhere near as bad as their dreaded counterparts-the chickens. Our goats, like most, eat damn near everything, and smell like garbage. The other night, as Nino and I were herding the animals into the stables for the night, one goat fell out of line. He wasn’t ready for sleep and wanted to keep the party going. As he fell out of line, he made a dash and attempted to hide behind the shed. That cunning fox. As smart as he was in his hiding trickery, I, the human, was more intelligent, and quickly discovered him munching on some grass near rusted tools. I then noticed Nino, and motioned for her to go around to the other side. In a matter of seconds, he was cornered and outnumbered, with only two options: surrender or fight. The goat chose the latter, and again attempt to flee. In a masterful display of football like skills, I tackled the goat, picked him up, and began to carry him to bed. He put up a good fight, biting me and endeavoring to stab me with his small horns the entire trip.

Enrique, our baby cow

Me and Enrique. I heart him.

Last on the list of enemies of the state are cows. Cows are a bit trickier, because I thoroughly enjoy our two bovines: Shakira and Enrique, so named because that’s all they listen to here. My family thought it was hilarious that I gave them such names, although they couldn’t understand why. Enrique and Shakira are great: they provide milk and let me pet them. Other cows, however, are more of a problem. They roam freely, and typically place themselves right in the center of the road, creating major road hazards. I can only guess as to how many wrecks and lives they’ve destroyed with their arrogant positioning. Cars in Georgia could care less about pedestrians, but do indeed swerve and avoid any animals obstructing their paths. The problem with this is that it places my life in jeopardy. Notwithstanding their downfalls, chickens take the cake, by far, when it comes to horrible farm animals. Chick ‘fil a can guarantee more of my business as soon as I return to the States.

“One night in Georgia makes a hard man humble-not much between despair and ecstasy. One night in Georgia and the tough guys tumble, can't be too careful with your company.”