After a conversation with an old co-worker at the place I buy my chicken feed, I kind of got angry.
I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had people suggest that I kill and eat my older chickens. You know, just throw ‘em in the stew pot.
But you know what? I’m not a farmer. I didn’t get chickens because I needed their eggs or meat to survive, either financially or for food. I got them because I thought it would be fun, and interesting, and I liked the idea of chickens.
Sound familiar? Kind of like why people get a cat or dog, maybe? But you don’t hear people saying, “Hey, why don’t you take that old, useless chihuahua and toss it in the oven?”, do you. Well, not very often.
But it’s sad to me, how easily people suggest just killing animals that I raise – not in a barn, but in my back yard. They aren’t livestock.
Even though they know me, know how I feel about my animals, it is still ok with them to make comments like that. Often even accompanied by a neck-wringing pantomime or chopping-block noises.
Let me explain, one more time, how I think: You don’t name a chicken after George Hamilton if you have the intention of turning it into soup.