DAY 80: Number 175

I became a vegetarian around my 175th chicken.
When college didn't work out, I was looking for some money and an adventure.  I joined the crew of a cargo ship, helping transport some 400 chickens out of Portland.  Halfway to port, my lead found a sick one, told me to kill it, and send it to the kitchen.  I did it, and located my lead to let him know it was done; he happened to be with the captain, at the time.   I was sent back to the pens immediately, while the captain and my lead had words.
It was the captain who came back for me in the pens.  Live birds would be under Chinese jurisdiction, which meant an extended stay and uncertain repercussions ; the only certainty was not getting paid.  Bird parts, however, would have a ready buyer in Shanghai.  Effectively immediately, the chickens had to be slaughtered before we got to port.  With my lead relieved of his duties, the task of dispatching the birds was left to me; they gave me the keys of the equipment, a couple of manuals, and four days.

I figured out a routine pretty quick: after slitting the chickens in groups of eight, I'll pile them in a wire basket for scalding, then chill them in the ice water trough.  Plucking and prep would have to be on its own time, but the ones I couldn't would still have someone to buy them.  Someone got word (or, more likely, heard the non-stop squawking) and sent down a taser; that cut down the flapping and scratching.  I became scarily efficient.
Each crate held 120 chickens; I was nearly three crates done before I noticed the taser winding down.  I should have expected its charge to wear down eventually, but I wanted to get done what I could.  Five hens to the end of the crate, then time for a cigarette, toss out the blood buckets and freshen up the ice for the next batch...
This bird, I tased, then I laid it upside down to slit.  It got away from me, even as it grazed up on the blade.  For the next 30 seconds, it was flapping above me, clawing for higher ground; arterial spray out the neck, on me, on the other chickens, all over the hold... And then she was done.  She collapsed on top of the crate.

It was a lot quieter after that.  I looked over the remaining hens in the hold, counting back to number 175, draped on the cage.  I got it in the scalding pot.  I got the rest done, with 14 hours to port, before I returned to my bunk.  I took a plane home.
I don't have a problem with people eating meat, or overeating it, or with the people who provide it.  I'm just tired of it.



inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Chicken Could Go 'Round the World"