My Smart Mouth: Mercy Killing in the morning

Today I euthanized a chicken.

Nothing starts the day like a little mercy killing before breakfast, right?

In case you weren’t aware, chickens are by and large conscienceless, carnivorous little jerks who will devour any flesh available to them and have been known, like junior high girls, to turn on their own in the blink of an eye.

The lone Banty in our coop was always a bit of an underdog, perhaps due to her smaller size. They don’t call it a “pecking order” for nothing, and in our little brood, she was at the bottom – for which she always had my sympathies. So, when I went out to feed the chickens today it didn’t come as a complete shock to find her sprawled motionless in the middle of the chicken yard – presumably bullied to death by her classmates. What did surprise me, when I grabbed a shovel to dispose of her poor little self before her larger brethren decided to take up cannibalism, was the discovery that she hadn’t quite yet shuffled the mortal coil.

This sort of situation being, traditionally, the purview of dads, I paused, a little rattled, to look around in vain for anyone meeting that description. Sadly, our resident household dad had departed for work an hour before, and as the suddenly sinister looking hens advanced, I quickly discarded the idea of calling my own personal Dad for rescue. Not only is he basically retired from the business of mercy kills, but this situation obviously required immediate attention.

Although I doubt anyone raised rurally is wondering, at this point in the narrative, why I didn’t consider calling a veterinarian, I’ll explain for the cheap seats, without going into too much detail. To my somewhat experienced, ranch-raised eye, the chicken’s state was such as to indicate that the end was nigh. So, girding my loins and raising my shovel, I did what any self-respecting rancher’s daughter knows she must do.

A common misconception often noted in my years spent elsewhere, was the idea that farmers and ranchers are hardened to the point of indifference in the face of the lives and deaths of their animals.

Although I will not argue that a certain amount of necessary “hardening” does not occur, it’s a mistake to assume that farmers and ranchers do not care about their charges. That ability to seemingly shrug off the loss of an animal and go about one’s day is not a product of a lack of feeling, so much as a necessary conditioning of how to handle such feelings. Because, inevitably, when one is surrounded by animals, they sometimes die.

Whether of old age, accident, or violence, all living things will eventually meet their end. By the time your average farm or ranch kid has reached about eight years of age, they have witnessed enough of this natural process to understand it for what it is – just that. As my aunt puts it (as learned from her Daddy) “that’s ranching.”

Do not mistake this acceptance of the facts of life, however, for indifference. Contrary to what many self-proclaimed animal lovers might believe, most of the ranchers I have known have harbored a greater respect for the animals that sustain their way of life than your average “pet person” could know or comprehend.

Firstly, most ranchers were raised in ranching families dependent for survival upon the survival of their livestock. The survival of your family and way of life is pretty strong motivation to maintain the well-being of your animals, and most good farmers and ranchers are concerned with the mental well-being as well as the physical, if for no other reason than because happy, non-stressed livestock produce better, grow better and sell better than sad, skinny, abused and stressed out specimens.

In fact, every Montana rancher I have ever known has put the comfort and health of their animals before his or her own, every single day. The evidence? Why else would a person leave the house in -20 weather to slog through snow drifts and brave blizzards, for days on end, to ensure their animals are fed? For most people, after a certain point of discomfort and hardship money is not a strong enough motivator. Yet, I have never known a single rancher to give up, say “it’s just too hard,” and leave their charges to their fate.

Secondly, not only are our animals our livelihood, they are our partners and our friends. We raise them from infancy – sometimes even pulling them from the womb and witnessing their first breaths. We work alongside them, depend on them, and turn to them in loneliness and despair. They are our greatest task and yet they are also our constant companions and, at times, our chief comfort.

Most farmers and ranchers are raised to be not just “owners” of animals, but stewards. They are taught animal husbandry in a sense that doesn’t include just the breeding and care of animals, but their proper treatment. And, if they’re anything like me, they’re taught that to truly love and respect an animal, you must respect its autonomy as an animal.

We are taught to treat our animals as animals, because that’s what they are, and that’s what they want to be. Yes, we might coddle them at times, but we understand that while they are our treasured companions, they are not human beings. We allow them the dignity to be what they are.

Cats want to hunt. Dogs want to chase. Horses want to run. Cows want to…chew. And chickens? Chickens want to sometimes peck each other to death and, if you were to fall over dead in their vicinity, they would eat you without compunction. Dressing them up in a sweater and anthropomorphizing them will never, ever change that.

What I’m saying is, although there’s nothing wrong with loving and caring for your animals, part of taking on the responsibility of an animal is taking on the responsibility of their well-being. Which includes putting their quality of life before your own selfish emotions and means that when the best thing to do is end their suffering you should not hesitate to administer (or delegate) that stroke of mercy.

Sometimes it’s hard to make the decision. But, if you’re not willing to make it, you have no business keeping an animal.

I didn’t shed a tear over poor Bandera the Banty, and I’m not losing any sleep over her violent demise. It’s hard out there in the barnyard, man, and we’re all in it together. I had her back, and I’m moving on.

Although, I do keep thinking damn…I hope she wasn’t just taking a rest when I found her, and about to snap out of it…