A philosophy exists that says the only fair right of passage
into being a carnivore is the ability to take the life of the animals you
consume. I agree with this philosophy, but given the day and age we live in,
that is not realistic all the time. So the fact that I had never killed an
animal seemed fair, until yesterday, when I finally had the means, the
opportunity, and even a little encouragement from Michelle.
Walking
across the distro pavilion towards chicken slaughter was easy. I had my camera
in hand, mesmerized at the contrast of the fresh red blood on the brilliantly
white cooler. As I looked through the camera, I heard nothing, smelled nothing,
saw only colors. My body did the thinking for me- stay out of the way, don’t be
rude, don’t get too close, try a different angle, etc. The moment I stopped
looking through the lens my body was flooded with the smell of death and the
cries of the chickens as life left their bodies. I had stepped out of the
safety of my camera and jumped head first into a pool of blood.
To
the assembly (or rather disassembly) line we went. Slicing at skin and flip
flopping the just dead animals from back to front as we pleased in order to
make access to cavities and bodily systems easier for ourselves. As I ran my
hand around the inside of the chicken, detaching organs and muscle, I felt the
warmth of its body radiate through my hands. Over my shoulder I was informed
that I had forgotten the lungs, apparently they’re very securely attached.
Reach back in, claw away at the bird’s ribs until they give up and tear free.
I’ve forgotten one more thing, the testicles. Reach back in, pinch those off. Take
a picture, take it’s breath, take his manhood. Done.
I
couldn’t kill one. Seeing the blood pour down the cooler was beautiful, but
watching as a bird with an already slit throat tried desperately to escape its
fate was agonizing. My breakfast almost ended up in the five-gallon bucket of
guts next to the disassembly table.
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