I have to admit I don’t feel good about my involvement (or
lack thereof) in the death of Queenie. Oh, it’s not guilt for having allowed
her to die – I am coming to terms with the fact that there was likely little I
could have done in that regard. It’s more the fact of her actual death, and how
I hid cowering behind little L’s bedtime routine rather than acknowledging or
participating in the bird’s removal and burial. I thanked her for her service
and delicious eggs in the last hours of her life, but I didn’t memorialize her
death in any way. Instead I sent Sam out to deal with it, relying on his steady
nerves to bundle her up in a feed sack and his strong shoulders to dig a burial
pit on the back of the property. I don’t think it bothered him – at least, he
didn’t question this arrangement – but it’s been niggling at the back of my
mind ever since.
I have always been squeamish about the physical effects of death,
and have a complete aversion to dead animals. I get a strong urge to run, hide,
do anything to avoid having to actually touch
something that is dead. Once it’s been packaged into a form that resembles
food, I have no problem. I don’t mind handling raw whole chickens from the
grocery store, and didn’t have any issue seeing/touching our pigs once they were
sawed in half and hanging in the butcher’s cold store. But an animal that was
recently alive? With feathers/fur still on? Fuhgeddaboudit. Ugh. My guess is
that this sense of revulsion is common and entirely normal, probably even
protective from an evolutionary point of view. In an age without soap and
antibiotics, those who went about touching diseased and decaying corpses
probably weren’t long for the world themselves. But if we are going to raise
animals, and more importantly eat the
animals we’ve raised, I am going to have to get over it to some extent. You can’t
pluck a chicken, or eviscerate a rabbit, without touching it. I also feel that
there is something in my squeamishness that is disrespectful to the creature
itself. Yes, in death the life-giving spirit of the animal has departed so that
there is a physical change. But, at least for a time, the body remains, and the
body itself is the same as it was in the moments before death. If anything, it’s
even more harmless because it’s inert. My aversion suggests that the
transformation upon death is so extreme that I reject the creature entirely,
body and spirit, and that’s just not right. I am not sure I have a point here,
except to recognize a weakness in myself and to understand that it’s something
I’d like to work on.
The upshot of all of this is that our second sick hen, Lulu,
is not doing all that well. She is able to move about of her own volition and
clucks disapprovingly when we approach her cage, which are both good signs. But
she’s not eating or drinking much and is still diarrheal. I’d hoped she’d have
made more of an improvement by now. So we’ll see. I may have the opportunity to
put my squeamishness to the test again sooner rather than later. Sigh.
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