“Are You Gonna Eat Your Chickens?”

Eat my chickens? Let me think about that—- NO. Actually, that deserves an exclamation point. NO!

Ok, ok just hear me out all you dang hillbillies. I can feel you rolling your eyes at me. My husband is especially rolling his eyes. Let me try to justify my reasoning behind the fact that I never once have considered eating my chickie babes. Never… Not even a millisecond, or a trillisecond, or a nanosecond… You get it.

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Quirk, my Barred Rock.

I’m going to preface this so you get to know me just a little bit better. I harvested a doe once. It was a pass through shot with my bow, right behind the right shoulder blade. Textbook perfect. I grew up hunting with my dad every year on opening day of gun season, which just so happens to be my birthday. I was even lucky enough to totally biff a perfect broadside shot at a monster buck at roughly 20 yards… (My dad will probably say it was only 10 yards…) But hey, it’s a great story and my dad will never let me live that down. I’m 3 for 3 with a shotgun on turkeys. Even provided my family with our Thanksgiving turkey with one of those bad boys. I’m the bullet-slangin’, shotgun-shootin’, turkey-harvestin’ queen in these parts of town, and I will remind my dad of that every chance I get. I know all about Fred Bear, Ted Nugent, and can sing you the Michigan Out Of Doors theme song. I know all the lyrics to “Thirty Point Buck” and I’m willing to bet you’re not a real hunter if you don’t! I most certainly was raised with a hunter’s mentality. You eat what you harvest and you are damn thankful for it. You don’t kill just to kill, and you better be certain you can get a good shot on it before you go flinging arrows or bullets. Respect mother-nature and the gifts she gives you…

But my chickie babes? Oh my. Oh my, my, my. I gotta sit down for this. Thinking about eating them has me all light headed and feeling guilty. (Gosh, I hope I don’t dream about EATING them tonight… That will be traumatizing.) I nourished those sweet little nuggets and watched them grow. I look them IN THE EYES and talk to them like they can understand me. (Oh hush, we all do it with our dogs. I’m not crazy.) They are not food. They PROVIDE me food. I’ve heard a few fellow chickeners refer to eggs as “butt fruit.” I like that… I think I might use it more often.

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Butt fruit. 

**Sigh** I just can’t eat my chickie babes, guys. I look at these girls and I smile. I see personality. I see chickie babes that are smart, clever, and downright intelligent. They are every bit of curious, and sometimes ornery. But mostly they are just happy to be… chickens. They cluck and whine and carry-on a whole chicken conversation with me when I let them out in the morning. The run up to me when I get home and follow me around the yard in a single file line. I am the chickie mom. I can’t EAT them! Some of them even have NAMES. Gaaahhhhhhh…. You can’t eat something you NAME.

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Squirt and Fiona, my silkies.

Ok… so what in tarnation am I going to do with them when they stop laying their delectable butt fruit? You know, I really haven’t given much thought to it. Perhaps I’ll just sip my coffee and watch them peck and scratch around the yard and admire their personalities much like I do now. Maybe I’ll have a whole separate run for my OG chickie babes that are “out of commission.” It will be their very own chickie babe retirement community… I’m not really sure quite yet. But I can’t eat them…. I just can’t.

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2 thoughts on ““Are You Gonna Eat Your Chickens?”

  1. Love it Sammy. Want to mention though that it was a shotgun and not a rifle that you hunt with. I saw a young lady in TSC yesterday trying to talk herself out of buying chicks, she walked out with 10,LOL. They were so FLUFFY

    Like

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