That Time I Killed a Rooster
• Photos by Tom Budge
Words by Prudence Rothwell
Photos by Tom Budge
Warning: This article contains graphic imagery of a dead rooster that may be disturbing to some people.
Choosing to eat meat means taking a life. Prudence Rothwell explores the hands-on reality of this decision.
When the morning came to visit the farm and kill the rooster, I felt like shit. My face was aching from crying all night. I had received the news that my friend had been struck by a car on his bike and killed earlier that day. It felt weird, unsettling and so irrelevant that I would then go and kill a rooster. When someone’s life had just been taken so unfairly, how could I then take a life? I had arranged this kill date with my farmer friend Glenda, a few months prior. So out of shock or sense of obligation, I forced myself to see it through.
I grew up on a dairy farm in northern Victoria and like most farm-kids, I am familiar, and relatively comfortable with, the circle of life. But we never killed our own animals for food; mum would buy meat from our local butcher or supermarket. I think about this a lot. Since moving to the city 10 years ago, I have been actively involved in the farmers’ market sector both professionally and as a consumer. Despite my farm upbringing and shopping by that ol’ rhetoric, "to know where one’s food comes from" (which has been bastardised by the industrialised food system with clever marketing and buzz words), I wasn’t satisfied by my decision to eat meat and simply "know". I wanted to take full responsibility for this decision.
As we drove north out of the city towards Kilmore, the grey clouds hovered over the sprawling concrete suburbia. I tried distracting myself with the comforting humour of my friend Ric, who was joining me. It was going to be his first time witnessing the killing of a rooster. I had been anticipating that this was going to be a life-changing experience. The day had finally arrived, but I was all out of emotions. In the space of 12 hours, I was trying to process the relevance of death. The empathy that I was feeling towards the rooster – a complete stranger – was incomparable to the loss of my friend.
We sat with a cup of tea at the farmhouse kitchen table. Glenda’s big hands wrapped around the mug. They were the hands of someone who worked the land; the skin cracked and calloused. She is a farmer that speaks no bullshit but with the biggest of hearts. I asked Glenda what the name of the rooster was and what his personality was like.
"Well there were two roosters on the farm - one was Big Rooster and this guy was Little Rooster. He dodged the bullet a few times because he was a bit smaller. And he is a bit of a talker so I expect that he won’t go down without making his protest known."
Glenda told me that there are a million and one ways to kill a chicken but her method was simple and old fashioned; a chopping block and sharp axe. It was the quickest way she knew how to do the job effectively. Fuck, I haven’t even chopped wood before. Glenda explained that she consciously avoids desensitising herself in the process of animals becoming meat because she likes her animals and their unique personalities, regardless of whether they are destined for the freezer. And she allows herself to grieve for them.
I hadn’t told Glenda about my grieving until we were walking with Little Rooster under arm, to the kill site. It kind of blurted out of me like a warning.
"Ahhh my emotions and sensitivities are really heightened at the moment because I found out last night my friend was killed."
She eased up on her stride and turned to me, rooster still under arm.
"Ok. That is shit and I am sorry. But you have a job to do right now and you need to place that grief over there for the moment and focus on the task at hand. This has to be quick, for your sake and for his."
Glenda didn’t muck around when it came to getting the job done – within seconds she had placed the makeshift twine slipknot around his head while holding the body so I had clear aim at his outstretched neck. I grabbed the axe before I could think too much and back out. Little Rooster was surprisingly quite big for a small rooster. He was silent. There was no protest. It was like he knew exactly what was coming.
The first blow was hard and a bit off-centre. The axe had slightly buckled under the sinew and I needed to go again quickly. The second blow chopped his head right off. Glenda released his feet and his headless body seemingly sprung back to life, dancing haphazardly. I watched on with the axe still in my hand.
"You ok?"
I was shaking. She put her hand on my shoulder.
"It’s a thing, and it should be a thing. Something was alive and now it is not, if that’s not a thing then I don’t know what fucking is. It doesn’t mean that it’s wrong. It just means that it should be acknowledged."