Finished

There are no more white birds in my back yard (well, except for an Ameracauna and a silky). Andrew helped me slaughter and butcher the last 7 today. Wow. This has been intense! Wedding preparations. The chicken for the dinner is now ready. Not only did we slaughter them but we cut the chickens up and then de-boned and cubed the breast and packaged it all separately. I am so grateful to the help that I had. I would not have been able to do it without the kind help of friends.

I am riding a wave of exhaustion right about now. Last weekend we did 14. This Saturday Bozenka and I did 12 birds (with Dean's help for the killing). Monday I did 10 more with the very able help of Louise. And today with some assistance from Drew I finished off the last 7. It is an all day event whenever it happens. I am sitting here at the computer to tired to remove my blood spattered clothes and have a shower.

The end of the meat birds is always a bit like putting down a heavy piggy back. Tomorrow morning I do not have to get up and move the chicken tractor or fill up their 10 gallon waterer. I don't have to feed them 5 times a day.

And that's good because there are about a million other things I have to do to get ready for the wedding....

And the weird thing? All the meat chickens are dead except one. But he's not in the back yard. He's here, in the house. Yes, George the chicken (Chicken George?) lives. Weird, eh? He seems happy enough. His muscles are wasting away. About all he can move are his wings and his head and neck. We put him out on the lawn in the sunshine on the weekend but he only flapped his wings and looked happy. Dean was too afraid an eagle would swoop down and take him so he was closely watched. Every day Dean makes sure he has food and water and cleans up his poop.

Irrational, sure. But its one of the things I love about my husband. There seems to be a purpose to George's life. Not like his compatriots. He won't be feeding us or the dogs. But he brings something to us, nonetheless. Eryn insists we can't tell if he is happy but we think he is. He gets petted and talked to and looked after. He's still got the look in his eye that led me to call him 'my little friend' and prompted me to bring him in from being trampled to death in the mud by his faster growing friends. Who knows how long George will live. Not long, I'm sure. But as it is, the disabled chicken has survived all his able bodied brothers (who have taken up their new abode in my freezer).