ESSAY // Intimate Slaughter

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by Sarah Hartman-Caverly

EXCERPT //

Knives, sharpened: check.
5-gallon buckets, sanitized: check.
Cutting board and butchery table: check.

It’s a crisp Saturday morning in late September.  Our three-year-old laying hens whine from their run, demanding breakfast, or freedom, or (preferably) both. I pace from the house to the pole barn, where an impromptu open-air slaughterhouse is taking shape.

Ice water: check.
Cooler bag and ice packs: check.
Plastic freezer bags: check.

I’m channeling Temple Grandin, Robin Wall Kimmerer, and the genetic memory of my lizard brain in preparation to end lives which, till now, I’ve taken great pains to protect and sustain. 

I set up the butcher table out of sight of the chicken coop, arranging the 5-gallon buckets of ice water for chilling carcasses in such a way so as to shield the carnage from view. Likewise, I tuck the knives under the cutting board so that the hens will be none the wiser until it is too late to matter. This slaughter will be humane.

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3.1, Art & Ideas, EssayHeather BlakesleeSarah Hartman-Caverly