sweasel.com

You can’t say life’s dull when you’ve a weasel in residence.

To think.. I could have gone my whole life without ever having chicken and dinner cruelly separated.

Clearly, pellet gun. With at least four or five buttons of your blouse unbuttoned. With your sleeves rolled up, but not over your red, white, and black armband. Which must never be obscured, because you are–

Swilsa, SheWeasel Of The SS!

And shiny black boots. Don’t care about a whip. But boots.

My grandfather usually prefered to grab their heads two to a hand and whip-crack them up over his head. The bodies would drop around him and he’d toss the heads in the trash while Grandma collected up the bodies as they quit running around…..

He didn’t do it much around us kids, we were too CITYFIED, and it tended to upset us when we were younger……

later, we’d do the chores in the chicken run when we visited, collecting the eggs while fending off Buster, his prize rooster. That bird had one hell of a chip on his shoulder, and always seemed to know when you weren’t paying complete attention. And, I have to say THOSE DAMN SPURS OF HIS HURT!!!!!

Scubafreak, when I was an ROTC cadet (lo, these many years ago), we had a short session of survival training at camp. This included, among other lessons, exactly the same technique you describe in killing a chicken. The NCO took a live chicken, and whipped it around, leaving the head in his hand, and the body running around, spurting blood.

This grossed out the cadets who had never seen an animal butchered. I had, but not chickens, so I thought it was cool, which really grossed out the cadets.

But the NCO decided to be “nice”: he gave the chicken head to one of the female cadets who was CLEARLY grossed out. It was a gesture many of us appreciated, and we made a point of rescuing the head from the garbage can a little while later, and turning it into our “Mascot For The Day”, by tying it to a stick, and creating our own totem.

The guide on had a blast hauling it around the rest of the day, and the cadre had a good laugh, whenever someone else was grossed out.

Couldn’t do that today, of course. We’d have the PC police all over our butts.

Ah, memories!

My Grandmother had a pet chicken, which I found surprising as she was a farm woman and I’m sure she butchered more than a few chickens in her lifetime.

My Mom had a pet bunny when she was a kid. Then one day when she was at school her bunny escaped. She ate odd-flavored “chicken” that night.

Oh dear. Well, let’s not talk too much about how to dispatch cute fluffy (delicious) widdle bunnies, then 😉

Yah, I’m a squeamish one myself. I’d have to be a veggit if I had to do my own killin’. Most of my male kinfolk were hunters/fishermen, but I never had any desire to kill anything myself. You look up “pansy” in the OED and you’ll see my photo as the prime example.

Everything, and I mean EVERYTHING tastes better if it’s had a name first.

Let me qualify that – it would have to have a face and move around on its own. Eggs, fish and vegetables are an exception. Actually, you can name a fish but you have to do it fast. Eric works. Although Salmon always seem to be named Bruce. But I digress…

Most folks have no idea what a proper egg tastes like – chickens need to be running around and eating whatever they can get their little beaks on – none of this “vegetarian diet” crap.

Aw damn, now I’m hungry.

I don’t really mind killing chickens.

I despise cleaning them afterwards, the whole plucking/gutting thing. Chicken season here really begins at Easter, although the local suppliers are beginning to have chicks. My wife being in the nursing home, therefore no longer available to object (she HATES live chickens), I may very well put up a run. Uncle Monkey is absolutely correct. The whitish ovoids found by the dozen in the market are only “eggs” by technical definition.

Regards,
Ric

Granny used to have this little blade that pierced their brainstems. It just shut them off like a switch.

They were easier to pluck too.

Never killed a chicken, but did kill a bunny once in survival training. Named it Bobo and let it hop around camp all afternoon on a parachute cord leash. Simple technique was to hold it by its back legs and pet it until it calms down and the ears lift back up off its neck, then CHOP karate-style. Clean neck snap. Rabbit stew for dinner!

If you baptized Bobo as “Fish”, you could have Fish on Friday. I wish I could claim credit, but the Catholic clergy thought of it several centuries before.

Snap a bunny’s neck and somewhere a weasel goes hungry. Now, there’s an unsettling thought.