I'm back. There are 13 hefty birds, plucked and gutted chilling in our fridge.

It's all a bit surreal, really. A few hours ago i was working up a little sweat chasing the waddlers around the yard- with Raelin's help- and loading them into boxes in the back of my mom's car. Chasing and catching chickens is *definitely* a job for the young and agile, of which i willing admit that i am no longer. No, 10 and under are best suited for rounding up poultry, no doubt about it. Perhaps even 6 and under. The closer you are to them, the easier it is to snatch them and probably the more delighted you are by their squacks and gobbles and desperate attempts to escape.

The woman who recommended West Gardiner Beef as our butcher was right on when she said the most time is spent simply driving there. It's not unlike a fast food, in which you order in one window and pick-up at the next. Which is a bit odd since that's kind of the opposite intent here, at least on our end. The poultry building is a cinderblock structure with a loading door and porch where you back up and are met by a young guy or two in blood stained and dripping coveralls. They nonchalantly grab your birds by the feet, on in each hand, fairly oblivious to their protests. Said butcher takes them matter of factly into the room and sticks them head first into a large cone-shaped thing mounted on the wall. Squacking ceases. Heads are detached. It's all quite quick and i guess fairly humane though i was disturbed by how stressed they obviously were in the transfer from car to guillotine. I mean, i suppose 15 weeks of lazy, free range life punctuated by the occasional scramble away from a preschooler counts for something, even if the last few moments are fraught with "what the FU--!???!!!"

When all the birds have been unloaded, approx. 10 minutes or less later, i pull my car around and back it up to the door on the opposite side of the building where 2 even younger guys (like 17 and maybe 13) are chatting me up and loading my warm, plucked birds into bagged boxes and covered with ice. The older kid- a red head- tells me that they are about done for the morning. Now there's clean up, and that's a bigger job. i can only imagine. I think they'd been going at it since 7:30am, and while it's only 10:30, in the 20 or so minutes i'd witnessed the operation, i think nearly 40 birds had been processed. He also informs me that turkeys are more work... take longer to clean and whatnot. Good to know, i guess.

So 5 minutes and $32.75 later, i'm heading out the driveway in search of a cup of coffee, my car noticeably quieter than it was on the drive up.

My guess is that we'll be there again, though there is something amiss for me in such a detached slaughter. I said my silent good-byes and thank-yous as they were pulled out, two by two, but it felt fairly lame and lost in all the activity. Can't think that even on a subconscious, cosmic, whatever-you -might-call-it level my lone vibes penetrated the stress and abruptness of the whole thing. But I can't discount the whole experience for the end... we enjoyed those birds. I think they enjoyed their life. I certainly won't be making any fried chicken or quesadillas from those drumsticks. No, they will be carefully roasted and dressed with yummy veggies and savored in their individuality, every last morsel.

Perhaps, even, tomorrow.