I’m not a killer, I just cluck a lot. . .

I was never a boy scout.  In fact, I could have been the worst boy scout to walk the earth.  I remember when I was in 3rd grade, my parents took me to the boy scout meeting and for some reason I never, ever showed up again.  I really don’t know why?  I will have to ask my parents what happened and write another post.  I’m guessing maybe it was too expensive, but more than likely I saw the ridiculous outfits with the small brown shorts and I decided it wasn’t for me.  I think in theory, the boy scouts seems cool.  Reality is, you have to go to meetings and work on knots and do all kinds of praying and shit.  Not really my cup of tea.  Now if they only repelled off rocks, went white water rafting, and fished I would have been hooked for life.

So, a little backstory.  The property my wife and I bought sits on 2.5 acres.  It has a fenced in horse pasture with a cute little covered barn.  I’m a city dude so having animals never crossed my mind, well not until I realized that the grass in the pasture grew really fast.  I had a hard enough time mowing our other grass with my 2nd hand snapper lawn mower.  I started to look into goats and was quickly talked into purchasing a couple of baby goats.  Well, one thing led to another and we ended up having chickens, ducks, horses and goats.  To go along with our cats, dogs, fishies, guinea pig and you name it.

Our good friend Jenna decided that they would surprise the kids with baby chicks for Easter.  Somehow we ended up with all of them because Jenna had no where to keep them.  Sadly, cute little chicks don’t stay cute for too long.  Of the pack emerged a big, majestic rooster.  He was clearly the king of the pack.  Honestly it was beautiful.  However, he had a bad attitude problem.  He harassed and even killed a couple of the other chickens and he was not afraid of people.  He would chase down kids and my wife.  He had that long gnarly spur thing on the back of his foot that could give Freddie Krueger a run for h is money.  I named him Tuco, after the crazy mexican dude in the show Breaking Bad because he was truly “pollo loco”

One day my wife Natalie was outside with one of the daycare kids (she runs a daycare out of the house).  Tuco went after the kid and my wife had to jump in and keep him away.  He then puffed up and was ready to go a round or two with my wife.  Out of self defense, she grabbed a nearby stick and hit him in the head.  It knocked him out.  I remember getting a text that day from my wife because she was worried she had killed the rooster.  Very soon Tuco got up and shook it off and went on with the day.  Long story short, Tuco did it again a couple of days later and this time my wife did hit him hard enough to kill him.

Flash forward.  We decided we wanted hens that lay eggs and we built a big chicken coop.  We went to TSC and picked up 4 chickens.  The girl told us she thought they were all female.  As time went by one began to get bigger and more aggressive.  It hogs all the food when we put it out and it attacks the other chickens at times.  It was most definitely a boy.  Everyone I know told me I had to get rid of it.  Finally the day came where it was time to get rid of it.  It had attacked another of the daycare girls and showed signs of aggression towards my wife.  In order to keep our yard and not have my kids scared to go outside I knew I had to kill the chicken.

I loaded up my 22 rifle after work and tried to make it quick. . .  it wasnt. . .

He was just walking around, eating stuff from the grass.  Every so often he would look up at me.  Like he was saying “What the hell are you looking at me for?”  I pulled my gun up locked and loaded and looked down the barrel at it.  Lined up.  I then searched my background to make sure I wouldn’t hit any of our other chickens or any of our other animals.  I just couldn’t bring myself to do it.  I went inside like 6 times.  Same song and dance each time.  My loading it up, aiming, and then chickening out (No pun intended).  Finally Natalie said “Just don’t worry about it, I’m sure it will be fine”  I said “No!” I am not going to deal with a pollo loco again.  I was going to take back my yard.  I had to do it for the kids.  This was the moment that I had to prove I could be the man of the farm.  I had to do some hard things even though I didn’t like it.

I went outside and followed him around the pasture and I stood about 30 feet from him.  I, once again, loaded the bullet in.  At that moment he attacked one of the other chickens, sending feathers flying.  I knew that I had to do it.  I pulled the gun up and got his head in my sight.  I exhaled gently and pressed the trigger with my eyes closed.  I heard the loud pop of the rifle and then a loud chicken scream.  I opened my eyes and he was down but still moving.  He was dead.  After he stopped moving we made a grave, put him in a bag, and buried him.

That night I woke up like 5 times and thought about that damn chicken.  I was riddled with guilt.  The next morning I was guilty as hell.  Later that afternoon I googled “how to kill a chicken”.  It was full ideas that suddenly made me feel like I was humane.  People had to kill aggressive chickens all the time.  The most popular method was picking it up and chopping its head off with and axe and letting it run around until it stops.  No fucking thanks!

Anyway, here is a picture of the chicken in the bag and the burial site.  I could have put more pictures but it was bloody as a murder scene.

His final resting place

His final resting place

The moral of the story is. .. . ..   hmmmmmmm.  I guess it is that killing things isn’t easy, even if you think your’re a hard ass.  Hahaha

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