Eating My Words . . . And a Chicken

It was a beautiful fall morning when we got up today. Clear and cold with a tinge of frost over everything. A perfect morning for chicken killing.

Yes, I am afraid that Chickie tricked us all and was not, in fact, a female Chickie, despite my confident announcement to that effect months ago. Dammit. We noticed quite awhile ago that Chickie was starting to get chuffy, in the way that all roosters do. But we put off the dispatching of Chickie because A. thought he was a magnificent rooster. Which he was, but he was also a mean bastard. And, in the last few days, the two roosters had started duking it out in the coop at night, driving the hens out and causing chaos and confusion when it came time for roosting.

We can't be having our hens out at night because of rooster pissing contests (figuratively speaking, of course) in the coop. Chickie had to go.

So this morning after Cubby went down for a nap, we grabbed the cleaver, a sharp knife, and a bucket and went to bring Chickie to his doom. Actually, A. was the one who grabbed Chickie. He got a nice hard peck on the hand for it, too.

It was Chickie's last defiant act, however.

Half an hour later, A. was looking down at a denuded Chickie and solemnly intoning, "Good-bye, rooster. Hello, roaster."

So clever, that A.

Chickie most likely will not actually be a roaster, however, due to his age. He'd probably be a little tough. I haven't decided exactly how to cook him yet. Some kind of braise.

Order has once again been restored to the chicken coop courtesy of A. the Grim Reaper and his cleaver.