The Ritual

Sharpened axe and a killer instinct honed by years of dealing death. Slathered sunscreen and a brimmed hat secured with a strap. Tonight we dine on the blood of our enemies. Actually, tonight we dine on fried chicken, maybe some potato salad and fresh squeezed lemonade. I might bake a cake too. But first, its chicken chasing time. That’s the part I’m not too crazy about, but a must unless we want to go vegan.

My chicken murder ritual consists of several parts. First, I prepare myself by protecting my ‘oh so fair’ skin with some sunscreen, 50 SPF and water-proof because I’m probably going to work up a sweat chasing around the chicken yard. I’m sure I look quite silly, too. The next thing to do is prop the axe against the stump. I call it my fried chicken death bed. Sounds like a heavy metal or punk band name. All the while, I’m psyching myself up for the chase and kill. Next, I nonchalantly cruise into the chicken pen. They are clucking and pecking the ground, not minding me at all. I move seamlessly through the menagerie. My chickens are various breeds of gifted or bought ladies. I find myself thinking of my daily walks through the collection of laying hens, broilers, miscellaneous unknown breeds and a rooster. He’s a pain in the ass, but handy for keeping my dogs at bay. As I wander around I look at Samantha, she’s my oldest chicken and completely off limits. I raised her from a chick. I just can’t bear the thought of losing her. “Good morning, Sammy,” I say. She greets me with a few clucks and trots over for her morning scratch. I pet her gently and, step 2, feed the gang. They scamper over and begin pecking furiously at the food I scattered. Ah well, time for step 3, stalking one of the newer chickens (better eating than an older, chewier, gamier hen.) I’ve selected Henrietta. She’s kinda dumb, so no big loss, right? Henrietta sees me approaching and wattles away slightly. She’s nervous and rightfully so. I look her straight in the eye and the chase begins. Now hens are screeching and flapping, running as best they can. The rooster, Carl, is chasing me and trying to spur me. “Get away from my flock,” he crows.

“Back off, Carl,” I scornfully sneer. “Or you’re next!”

Carl doesn’t back off and now I’m angry. I abandon my chase of Henrietta and she quickly quiets down, tucking in to the scattered remains of this morning’s breakfast. She’s what I call my ‘good eater.’ Meanwhile, Carl is attacking me with gusto. Carl will be dinner, after all. “Nobody’s irreplaceable, Carl! You jerk!” I yell as I embark on the screeching cretin. We circle each other, Carl with wings spread wide, sharp spurs at the ready and me with a murderous gleam in my eye and a tight grip on the feed bucket. I plan to swing it at him & maybe knock him out with it. Carl lunges at me, full force with a take no prisoners attitude. I scream and run, heading for the door to the pen, bucket flailing, feet kicking up dust scattering the recently settled chickens. Carl is close on my heels so I jump high on the pen fencing, up and over the wall. I scream over my shoulder with a smug look on my face , “Ha! Take that, Carl. You missed me, again!” And so ends my ritual of chicken killing for dinner. I guess I’ll head over to the grocery store for some nice, cellophane wrapped, nameless bird.

Oh dear Lord. Here comes my neighbor, Sally with a box of baby chicks. They are so cute…