My children surprise me sometimes. I’m sure in this case I never gave them enough credit to begin with.
The story: Our roosters are getting big and I’m ready to say good-bye to all of them except Larry. He’s our smart rooster and I think the hens will enjoy having him stick around. The rest have to go – they eat too much and are all getting ready to start Cock a Doodle Dooing every morning bright and early. A friend who has roosters the same age is finding herself in the same boat. She found out how we can have our roosters “processed” for a small fee. We drop the roosters off in a crate and pick them up later packed in plastic bags, ready for dinner.
I don’t eat chicken anymore, so I don’t plan on eating our roosters. ‘A’ isn’t a meat eater either. ‘H’ and Jeff like chicken, so the decision about whether or not to eat our roosters is left to them. I feel a bit weird about it now that the time has come. I mean, some of these roosters have names already. I’m not sure I want to add Fuzzy Feet to a stew.
I was planning to ship the roosters off and tell the girls they were going to a better place. I would leave it at that. I started to wonder though if I should just be honest. Tonight I asked the girls how they would feel if the roosters were processed and eaten by someone for dinner. They seemed to think it was just fine, as long as Larry wasn’t one of them. I asked them how they would feel if we ate them and again they said yes, that would be fine.
So, it’s done. The roosters will be processed and will find a home in our freezer.
Look at these chickens – they follow me around the yard, just like this. I’m smitten.