08RIP Roosty
Yesterday evening was the last day of my rooster’s life. It wasn’t a great or long relationship, as I only wanted him for his body: his tail feathers, his brilliant red comb.
We coaxed him into an open space and I only peeked once after I heard the shot echo off the barn wall. I gagged. I imagined the inside of his lungs, and his heart, and his muscles being ripped into by each tiny BB from that shot gun. My brain doesn’t deal well with death; the idea that in a split second those tiny balls of metal were the difference between a heartbeat and no heartbeat.
We buried Roosty as the sun set, and I grew sick to my stomach. But, we drank Cokes on the front porch and I felt better as the spring peepers started singing.
Today, I’m relieved. I’m relieved because I no longer squirm at the thought of feeding the rest of my hens for fear of being attacked. But, I feel like a murderer. I’m intrigued that two such opposing feelings can exist within a single skin. And how often does this happen to us? So, so often.
