Slaughtering a Rooster, in Pictures
From slicing the head to cooking the soup.
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Big, Rude Arlene
When Arlene let out her first crow, signalling that she was in fact a he, I knew what I had to do. Roosters are illegal here. Arlene had to go. "I could never butcher one of my pets," a friend reproached, which pissed me off. Neither could I. But semiferal Arlene, who swaggered around the yard snarfing up centipedes and bullying the hens? Not a pet.
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2 of 6
Daddy's Little Helper
My father, who put himself through college working at a slaughterhouse, came over to help with the job. I let him do the hard part. I held Arlene down on a stump and watched my father cut off his head with a pair of gardening shears.
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The End of Arlene
Arlene thrashed for a bit and went still. My hands were covered with blood.
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Into the Pot
I dunked him in scalding water, holding him by his chalk-green feet. When I pulled him out, he smelled like wet cat.
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5 of 6
Seasoning Arlene
I've eaten a lot of chickens in my life, and they were all dead. There are good people who might need to kill a chicken to understand the link between a living bird and a McNugget, but apparently I had grasped and accepted the concept from the get-go.
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6 of 6 Arlene Soup
The next day, I made chicken soup. My children knew exactly what was in the pot, and to my surprise, ate with gusto. "We're honoring Arlene by not wasting her," said my 8-year-old son. They must teach that stuff in school these days, because he didn't get it from me. (Read what I learned from slaughtering Arlene here. The short answer: nothing especially virtuous.)
