The Daddy bought several live chickens at a time from a local chicken farmer, and he and the Mama would slaughter them in the backyard. I was 11 or 12 when the parents decided it was time for me to help with the slaughtering. Like I really wanted the experience. I suppose they figured a day would come when I would need to slaughter a chicken for survival. Yes, it would definitely be an asset if I were to be chosen for Survivor, the reality show. But, that's if I didn't get kicked off before my team won a challenge that rewarded us with chickens. I digress.
My part in the slaughter was simple. I only needed to hold a chicken firmly down on a block of wood while the Daddy slit its neck. On the day of my rite of passage, I watched the parents do the process a couple of times. Then it was my turn. I kneeled behind the wood, and the Daddy put a chicken beneath my hands, face towards him. He did not let go of the chicken until he was sure the bird could not get away from me.
"Ready," said the Daddy.
"Okay," I said, leaning forward a little more to maintain a better grip on the bird.
The Daddy did his thing quickly. The chicken squawked and fidgeted madly under my hands, but I kept it steady so its blood drained into the pot beneath it. Then, it happened.
SPLAT. SPLAT. SPLAT.
The chicken performed it last (to put it politely) bathroom act. All over my face, arms, and body! Yeah, go Eeewwwwwww because I'm sure I did.
I was good helper though. I held that chicken until its spirit completely left it. The Mama took the chicken and I ran into the house to clean up. The parents were good. They waited until I was in the house before they broke into laughter.
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