Well, it's time, I cannot put it off.
My meat chicks are seven weeks old, so I need to pack them up and take them to be processed.
Processed is such a nice word, isn't it? Rolls off the tongue so much easier than "killed and plucked and eviscerated."
I'll be taking them later today or this weekend.
Nature genetic modification has made my decision a whole lot easier. If I chickened out you'll excuse the pun, I trust? and decided to keep them as "pets", their health would take a dramatic, steep decline and they would live only a few more miserable days or weeks before dying painfully and uncomfortably.
So this is a mercy killing.
I am the Dr. Kavorkian of chickens.
Aren't I the kind and compassionate soul?
Here are a few pictures of them. One of those death montages like they play at the Academy Awards every year where you say to your partner "I thought he died like five years ago."
Cutest things EVER!
Here are the Cornish Rocks and their brothers of fate, the packing peanuts cockarels, at about one to two weeks old.
Time to say goodbye to nursery school and start mixing in with the big girls.
And here they are today with their Big Girl Panties on. See how much faster they've grown than the peanuts? They share the same birthday.
The peanuts have a couple more months to live before they go under the knife. Eat, chickies, eat! You need some more meat on your bones.
That was some chicken humor in bad taste, is what that was.
And you can only get that right here, folks.
Anyway, goodbye little chickies. Hope you enjoyed your short little lives, and that I was a good caretaker. Thanks for feeding me and my family. May your souls rest in peace.
Yes, I'm dramatic, I know all about it.
You can blame my mother.
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