Owning Being a Meat Eater

I can't get a handle on what's going on inside me right now.

I killed a chicken today. I chopped her head off, and while her body went through its death spasms, I held her head until her light left. "Thank you, sweetie, bless you baby, thank you sweetie," I whispered to her, stroking her feathers, blood dripping down my wrist.

I'm a meat-eater now, and so I figure that I ought to have the fortitude to take the life of a creature that I will eat. I see this as part of un-making the diseased suburban lifestyle. Job specialization is wonderful, but being so divorced from our food supply that the slaughterer is the only one who ever sees meat as an animal is sick. Wrong. Worse than not knowing what kind of tree pickles grow on.

This chicken was the most loved one in the coop. She was the last one slaughtered. I am very honored to be the one that took her life. "I feel you definitely showed the most love, out of anyone today, for the chicken as you killed it," Betsy told me. That feels nice to hear.

I'm also very undone at the moment.