I am thrilled to bring you a guest post today by Kim Wilson. Kim is a great writer who works with college students and encourages people to achieve things they never thought possible. In her free time, she runs marathons, eats sushi, enjoys CrossFit, takes pictures, and tries new things. She also is an undertaker of chickens. All of this makes me feel slightly exhausted. Read on, then go visit her at her own blog, New Life Cal U.
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Taking care of animals is not my forte, nor does it make my Top 100 list of favorite things to do. Growing up, we had a cat and a dog, but they were not my responsibility. I don’t despise animals, but you won’t find me beckoning a dog to come lick my face or begging to go to a petting zoo.
Occasionally, my parents call upon me to tend to their chickens while they’re gone. Five days this time. I told myself that five days weren’t bad at all. Besides, my almost-seven and eight-year-old nephews would be there for the last three days, and they love the chickens. Every time they’re at the house, they beg to go play with the chickens. That’s one thing I’ll never understand.
Pleased that I had paid my two days of dues without a hitch, I smirked and thought, “I’m scot-free.”
Since my parents recently bought chicks that the boys hadn’t seen yet, I sauntered up to the coop to watch their delight in playing with the new additions.
When the oldest entered, he sullenly said, “Aw, one of the chickens died. I hope it wasn’t Rosie.”
“Really? Where?” I didn’t want to believe it. He pointed to two scrawny legs protruding from beneath the hen house. In my head I said the same words he did, but they didn’t have the same sad-for-the-chicken ring to them.
The scene reminded me of the demise of the Wicked Witch of the West. Only that was better because she just disappeared.
“I’ve got to call someone to find out what I need to do,” I said as I exited the coop.
Without even looking up from chasing the chickens, the oldest matter-of-factly said, “You just bury it.”
Just bury it. Great. An 8-year-old is giving me advice.
Since I didn’t have time to find an online tutorial or summon help, I decided to wing it. It can’t be that hard.
With the hole dug in another part of the yard, I went to retrieve the unfortunate winged creature. Standing as far back as possible, I prodded the chicken with the shovel. That whole “running around like a chicken with its head cut off” thing had me a little leery of a momentary resurrection. The apprehension may also be tied to a premonition that developed when I had to deliver flowers casket-side, fearing the man would sit up in his casket and grab my arm.
Then, I noticed the flies swarming around the hole in its chest cavity. A pretty sure sign it’s really dead.
Tediously wriggling the shovel beneath the chicken did nothing, except to create a chorus of clanking claws.
Before I could object, my nephew grabbed the legs and started to drag it. “Nooo! Don’t touch it!” I was mortified. Unfazed, he let go and hovered uncomfortably close to that awful-smelling bird as I finally coaxed it onto the shovel with a stick.
I began to wonder why the chicken died, but my curiosity didn’t inspire an autopsy. In case my parents asked questions about the particular chicken, I snapped pictures with my phone before laying it to rest. Stamping down the loose dirt on the burial spot, I breathed a sigh of relief.
Only to find out a couple days later I didn’t dig it deep enough.
What experiences with dead animals have you had?
eeeewwwwwww……
It’s a good thing I left out some of the details…
Yup. Total gross out!
Hope you’ve recovered.
Have no idea what happened with my name there.
Having one of “those” days.
Aren’t you glad every day’s not one of those days?
Uh-oh….
I agree. Although, I don’t think it’d be as tough if I had to do again.
A neighbor called a while back to let us know our kids were playing with a dead pheasant in the middle of the road. I’m not sure if he was concerned about the dead pheasant or being in the middle of the road.
Hmm, concerned neighbor?
Your eldest had to egg you on, eh? That’s one chicken who won’t cross the road.
Haha, yep, and if he was a bit older I would’ve had no qualms about asking him to bury it.
I’ve known Kim for a long time, and she has a passion for life that rivals so many. Enjoyed the line “fearing the man would sit up in his casket and grab my arm.” Is that the same fear as flushing the toilet and running so it won’t suck you down with the water?
This post reminded me of dating my now wife when I was 18. Beth’s parent decided to have a chicken coop in their back yard in the country as their first test into true “redneck” living. They also had a small dog, later discovered to be a serial chicken killer.
One morning I came over to discover that ALL 9 of the chickens had been maimed by this “Hannibal Lecter” dog and someone needed to dispose of the half dead zombie chickens. Most of them had broken necks and were bleeding…..
I volunteered to dig the mass grave while Beth’s older sister was forcefully volunteered to “ring their necks” to ensure they were dead. Her sister would scream and jump around everytime she would kill one….. Sometimes the chicken would attempt to escape it’s final grave and I was responsible for any “Mortal Combat” style finishing move to keep said chicken in grave with my shovel.
Luckily, the hole I dug was deep enough 🙂
Thanks, David! Wow, that’s quite a story. I would’ve screamed, too! The more I think about it, the more I’m thankful for a dead chicken.
Kim, so nice to meet another non-animal gusher. I can appreciate other people’s pets — from afar. I think I would have been happiest while burying the chicken. Watch out, that son of yours might be asking for a puppy when he is 10. He’s got that sensibility. Just sayin’.
Renee, no kidding – I feel like I’m the only person who doesn’t like animals too much. Oh my nephew will definitely be asking for more pets soon. Rosie is his pet chicken. Pet chicken (*shakes head). He carries her around and feeds her out of his hand. I call him the Chicken Whisperer.
> ” That whole “running around like a chicken with its head cut off” thing had me a little leery of a momentary resurrection. ”
Yes! That is exactly what I would have feared!
A few years back, we had to bury my child’s hermit crab. My daughter was sad. But that thing really stank. I was glad to get it buried.
I’m glad to know I’m not the only one. I too was glad as the smell subsided after burial.
Some days you just have to bury a dead chicken. That could be an opening to a self help book someday. I’m curious though, what happened at the “too shallow” hole?
I’ll have to keep that in mind for when I write that book. Ah, well, thankfully nothing tragic, just a deflating of my pride when my parents asked me how deep I dug the whole. Apparently it was supposed to be more than a foot deep.
Learning the proper depth for a shallow grave is a lesson often learned the hard way.
It’s not something that I thought needed to be in my repertoire, so I had no other way of learning this lesson.
Oh, Kim, what a hilarious, odious (literally, not stylistically) post! Chickens as pets? That’s just wrong. That’s like having a pet pizza.
Jess, you crack me up! A pet pizza – that’s about right. Except that I’d probably eat it.
Dear Ms. Kim,
Mother Hen here, hoping you said a few kind words over the deceased. Something like this would have been appropriate:
“Dearly beloved” (Oh, wait, no, that’s for weddings!)
” Ahem! Let us now say a word of thanks for the life of the dearly departed Biddie, for while she suffered an untimely death, she was a good layer and left behind many little chickies who will be more than glad to have her nest.”
Mother Hen does not want to know the end to this tragic story, as it is already tragic enough.
Mournfully yours,
Mother Hen
That’s a beautiful eulogy – thanks, Mother Hen! Um, yeah, I uh… can go say these words over the grave now. 🙂
“I’m going to bury the chicken, if you know what I mean…”
🙂
I love that you said you “decided to wing it” – unintentional puns are the best.
And if you intended it, that’s even better…
Next time, I hope the chicken is wearing ruby slippers that magically appear on your feet just before its legs shrink away under the coop.
Good luck with that… 😉
I’m quite the fan of puns. It must be my dry sense of humor. I like the subtle humor, and I’m glad you caught that one. But a girl can dream, right?
My oldest step-daughter had rats as pets. (insert “gross, ugh, etc. here). They actually weren’t too bad, but on a weekend where she went to visit her mother, one died (because, of course, it couldn’t have waited two.more.days). Because we thought we were being loving, caring, feeling parents, we FROZE the corpse of the rat in the freezer so that she could participate in the burial with all ceremony upon her return. (There was no way a dead rat way staying in the cage over a weekend. No. Way.)
Of course, she was horrified and embarrassed and grossed out that we had even contemplated making a “rat-cicle” out of her beloved pet. It’s safe to say our “Parent of the Year Award” would be withheld yet another year.
He’s buried in a shoe box at the side of the house. DEEPLY buried.
Oh. my. goodness. With each dead animal story, I’m glad mine was just a chicken. A rat will NEVER be found in my freezer, no matter what (of course, that’s asking for it, right?). Wow, I think you’re parents of the year for allowing her to even have rats. I wish you could see me shuddering at the thought.
I’ve got a friend who raises domestic rats. She lives in that northern country up there. Can…something. It’s like Cancun only a billion times bigger and a billion times colder.They’re clean, fastidious, and curious creatures, according to her. Short-lived though, at least the type she has; A couple of years, typically; a 5-year old rat is apparently very old.
Fell apart laughing at your concern about the chicken running amok, because that would have been my fear as well. Good on you for following through, even if the follow-through wasn’t deep enough.
I killed my pet rabbit. I’d been given permission to take the bunny out of his cage and let him hop about the back garden. Bunny hopped into the tent my Dad had only just erected, in anticipation of a “backyard camp out.”
Bunny pooped in the tent, despite my fierce three-year-old warnings against it. So, I picked Bunny up by his ears, as I’d been taught, and SPANKED HIS BUM.
My parents reckon I either broke his neck or he died of shock.
My husband told me that when I told him that story he’d seriously considered rescinding his proposal, he was so disturbed by the mental picture.
In my defense, I was THREE. And my Dad wasn’t quite quick enough to snatch Bunny from my fatal grasp.
Haha, I’m glad I’m not the only one. My parents said that chickens don’t play dead, but how was I supposed to know that?? 🙂
Wow, what a story. I got a good chuckle out of that.
Dark, awesome fun!
Dark, yes. Fun… I’m not so sure about that.
Aha!