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What Dies When We Kill? | There's Much More We Can Do
What Dies When We Kill
Published in the Palo Alto Review
I didn't used to think much about it. Killing, that is. At first it was inconsequential but after a while, I wondered if I had gone too far.
Killing a bug isn't usually worth getting excited about, but while traveling in India, a bedbug found its way into my sleeping bag. In the morning, my calves were covered with bumps that itched mercilessly. The next night, I awoke to a tickle on my thigh as the bug searched for fresh blood. I rolled off the bed, peeled down the bag and pinched the little devil dead. Then I threw it on the floor and stomped it with such vigor that it was hard to see even the spot where it had been pulverized.
I felt no remorse.
My husband and I were scuba divers. I became obsessed with the hunt for live shells, gems of the ocean. They were preferred to abandoned shells for the luster maintained by the animal within that slid its flesh out over the shell. When I located a prize, I had to get rid of the pesky occupant. I boiled it, plucked out the cooked animal with a dental pick and tossed the body over the side of the boat like so much garbage. Food for the fish.
One shell I still have is a plain spiral the shape and size of child's football. A dark-brown husk flakes off in little pieces when the shell is handled. The lustrous rosy mouth is the surprise, where the muscular foot slipped into the world and back into its home.
In a warm Mexican bay, I discovered the sea snail in a heap of rocks, camouflaged by bits of clinging seaweed. The silky animal body withdrew at my touch into the pink lips of the shell, pulling the crusty operculum into place for imperfect protection. My heart raced. I squealed with excitement into my mouthpiece, clutched my treasure to my chest and swam back to the boat to celebrate the hunt.
It wasn't that it was a beautiful shell. In fact, the outside was rather plain, but it was big, the biggest shell I had ever found. The only problem was removing the animal. Boiling was out since I didn't have a large enough pot. The shell collectors' manual suggested hanging the mollusk by its foot was a good solution for the larger finds. As the animal weakened, the shell would pull down on the body, and eventually fall off, leaving it free of meat that would rot.
Sliding a large hook into a corner of the muscle behind the operculum was like baiting a fish hook with a worm. I hung the mollusk from the main boom and placed a cushion under it to catch the shell at the moment of separation. When we went below that night, I expected to add the vacated shell to my collection in the morning. I ignored the consequences of this plan for the current occupant.
I bounced up on deck at daybreak, eager to claim my prize. The first rays of dawn revealed the exposed flesh of the weakened body, rich crimson with iridescent royal blue spots. I gave a little tug, but the determined animal clung to its shell. I scanned the bay to see if any one else had come into our anchorage to witness this indecent display, but we were still alone. As the day wore on, the shell hung lower exposing more of the bright flesh.
By the next day, it was getting hard to live with this brilliant chunk of live meat, but I wanted that shell. I had to watch all day while the body grew longer and the shell hung lower. It swayed heavily with every passing wavelet, impossible to ignore. The flesh recoiled from my touch.
Wouldn't it ever give up?
My passion for the prize wavered. I just wished the thing would die so I could throw it overboard and be done with it. But it wouldn't. The dehydrating body grew longer, and more of that damned spotted flesh pulled out of the heavy shell.
When I was a kid, our dog killed a neighbor's chicken, and we tied the body of the dead chicken around his neck until it rotted off, hoping the putrid odor would make other chickens look less attractive to him. I could almost feel the weight of that chunk of muscle on my chest and smell the foul stink in my nostrils.
On the morning of the third day, that miserable shell was still in the grip of the nearly dead animal. I thoroughly regretted starting this revolting process and was ready to give up, although I knew that the animal could never survive even if I threw it back in the water. I gave the shell another tug, and it dropped into my hand! Quickly I unhooked the naked body and cast it into the sea. Full of guilt, I took my sullied prize below and hid it, unwilling to throw it away but wanting it out of sight.
But the episode wasn't over. The body lay about twenty feet below the hull of the boat, easily visible through the clear water. It retained its brilliant color, even more condemning as it lay on the stark white sand. Scavenger crabs found the carcass, and plucked at the thick muscle.
I suggested to my husband that it was time to leave, and as we pulled up the anchor, the boat made one last swing over the brilliant corpse. I heard a small voice from my depth - "Why?" We had been living off the sea, digging, steaming and eating clams and catching fish for dinner. It seemed in synch with the rhythms of nature. Eating the flesh of that snail never occurred to me and that was the last time I killed an animal for such a frivolous reason as collecting its shell.
Life aboard a boat grew too narrow for us, and my husband and I had the romantic notion to be self sufficient and raise our own food. We tied up the boat and moved ashore. My partner had owned a dairy farm before I met him. I was raised in the city and was not familiar with the joys and sorrows of animal husbandry but I loved animals. As we built pens and fenced pastures, I did not concern myself with the moment of transition far in the future that would bring meat to our table.
The peeping chicks we picked up at the post office in their mailing carton were fluffy balls of energy, delightful to watch. In three months, they were no longer those cute babies, so there was no anthropomorphic affection to prevent their predestined fate. The first years, we worked together, and the rewards were tasty, indeed. Soon, he was busy with renovating the house and I took on care of the animals.
The day came for putting the meaty chickens into my freezer. I grabbed the blue speckled kettle filled with water just under boiling, took the hatchet from beside the wood stove, and whacked it into the stump outside the chicken house. The plump chickens waited in the box where I had put them the night before, when they were dopey with sleep. I grabbed one and stuffed it under my arm, making soothing chicken noises. Gripping its scaly feet, I gently turned the trusting bird upside down and lay it on the stump. In this odd position, the chicken relaxed when I stroked under its chin. Its eyes drooped, and it stretched its neck out in gullible bliss. It made a good target. Very quietly, so as not to disturb this reverie, I picked up the hatchet and liberated the head from the body. It was quick and painless for the chicken and not too difficult for me. The plucking and gutting were formalities, and by the time that chicken was naked, it had become merely a carcass ready for processing.
Rabbits were more of a challenge. They were even cuter when they were tiny. Fuzzy dynamos, they zipped around their cage with bursts of youthful energy, their little ears, and pink, twitching noses alert for discovery. I loved to go out and just watch them play.
"Yeah, just remember not to name any of the ones you're gonna eat," our neighbor warned us. His family had raised rabbits during the Depression, so rabbit meat was the food of poverty to him. "I remember when my brother Jake asked Mom if that was Flopsy in the pot. She told us not to think about it, but we weren't too hungry that night," he chuckled.
Right. No names for the babies.
When the rabbits were bigger, they were still soft and fuzzy, so when their time drew near, I had to conjure up negative thoughts as I fed them each morning. "You are eating too much. That's all you do is eat up my grain. Cute is not enough. "These animals were no longer "bunnies," they were "rabbits." I was not going to "kill" them. I was "butchering them for our table." Rationalizing helped. Very intellectual. There were those among our back-to-the-land friends who claimed that carrots screamed when they were pulled from the ground. We had to eat something! I ignored the internal voice.
On the morning of the deed, I became an automaton. I knew what had to be done. A sharp knife, a bludgeon and a piece of cord were all I needed. I took a steel, a heavy metal knife-sharpener, for the hardest part.
I watched myself march out to the pen, gently seize a rabbit by the skin on the back of its neck and lift it out of the cage, holding the body with my other hand so it felt secure. I placed it on the lawn and pinned it down. Then, I reached for the steel. Some part of me flew off somewhere to avoid responsibility for what was happening. I took careful aim, and thwacked the head as hard as I could, right in front of those soft bunny ears. If not dead, the rabbit was certainly stunned. Quickly, I tied the cord to one leg and hung the limp body from a post. Blood flowed freely after I cut the throat and it was done. The rest of the butchering went easily, though I was never able to achieve the rapture experienced by the author of the booklet on rabbit husbandry who described peeling the rabbit skin down off the body "as if it were a pair of pajamas."
Each dismembered corpse rested quietly in the freezer. Meat.
The key ingredient of Saddle of Hare with Tart Cream Sauce is the meaty rabbit saddle. It is marinated, roasted and covered with a sauce made of the reduced cooking juices and heavy cream. Served with freshly-picked and lightly steamed green beans, crisp salad greens and steaming brown rice accompanied by oven-warm whole wheat bread, it was a wholesome meal for our appreciative guests. Home grown, organic, was in. Store bought was out. We were the new pioneers.
My husband and I separated. The boat was his, the mini-farm was mine. One night in late spring, an animal killed one of our chickens. The half eaten carcass was surrounded by feathers in the field where the chickens scratched. At first, I was furious, but soon I was able to allow him his share of our largess. The next week, he killed four. He took two or three bites out of each fleshy breast, and left the mortally wounded birds in shredded heaps. That was harder to bear. Then he got ten birds, leaving them weakly flapping, encircled with feathers pulled out in the frantic dance of survival.
Early on a warm summer morning, I awoke to loud squawking from the field in front of the house. I suspected it was the marauder, but I had never seen him. I raced bed-warm to my second floor window to see chickens jumping like popcorn, and a fox diving at them as they landed. Limp bodies and struggling birds littered the battle ground. I was furious. I ran to the closet for the .22 rifle, laid it on the window sill to steady the aim and squeezed the trigger. It didn't occur to me that this little pop gun could send its bullet across the lawn and half the field and be accurate. Good thing, because the fox dropped to the ground. By pure luck, he ran into my bullet.
So, there was something new to consider. If it was acceptable for animals to kill for food where do we draw the line? I will share my largess to a point, but when does the killing become excessive? Why couldn’t that fox just take one bird and devour it? Was he killing for fun? He clearly crossed my line of peaceful coexistence.
His tail made a lovely prize in return for my poor chickens, but it soon became just another grisly trophy to display next to the flaking shell.
That summer alone, I proved I could handle the work just fine. I was invincible. I was WOMAN, echoing thoughts of others at the time. After only a few months, I felt trapped. Having proven I could handle everything, I discovered I didn't want the responsibility of so many animals.
We had bought the four sheep so we could spin their gray wool. I can't remember why I didn't just sell them all, but "Rammy" got designated for meat. Maybe I still had something to prove to myself.
"Oh, sure," my elderly friend, Van, said. "I'll help with the heavy lifting part, but I won't do the killing. I was in the Cavalry in Dubya Dubya One and I had enough of that!"
No problem. I had killed animals, though nothing quite as big as a fully grown ram.
I psyched myself up for a week. Rammy had caused his share of problems and I could use a few mutton chops. This was just another farm chore.
The ram was accustomed to getting grain in a tiny shed in his field, so on that morning, I locked the door behind us as he ate his last meal. It took a bit of doing, but I forced him into a corner, grab his woolly coat and flopped him onto his side. I knelt on his neck and tied his feet. He was immobilized and not happy.
I took a breather, went back to the house for the final preparations and focused on what had to be done. Step One: kill him. Step Two: quickly slit his throat to bleed the meat clean. Step Three: tie the back legs to a spreader bar and hoist the body up to hang from a tree limb (the heavy work). Step Four: remove hide (for tanning). Step Five: remove head. Step Six: remove organs to a clean container, wash well, save liver and kidneys. Step Seven: wash the carcass well and cut it into quarters. Step Eight: carry it to kitchen for final cutting into recognizable named parts (chops, shank, ribs, leg of). Wrap. Label. Freeze. Enjoy.
But Rammy was waiting, trussed and lying on the straw covered floor of the shed where I had left him, rolling his eyes, showing lots of white. Breathing heavily he jerked his bound feet in n unsuccessful bid for freedom.
No more delays. I grabbed the .22 rifle, called out to Van that I was ready, and tramped back to the shed in tight control. No little voices permitted now. "This has to be done. It's what farmers do."
I opened the shed door, and without allowing any hesitation, I put the end of the rifle between the eyes of the helpless ram and pulled the trigger. He jerked once and lay still.
When the meat was in the freezer, I relaxed. The mental tape I'd been running that said "This is OK. This is what is done" ran down. The tiny voice in my soul grew louder and said "Why do this?"
I live in a city now. I still kill bugs, but the small amount of meat I eat comes out of a display case. I never asked Van why he was so quick to say he would not do the killing. Had he figured out something during the war that I had yet to discover? The scary part now is that I did seduce myself with rational arguments that killing is acceptable in certain circumstances which I defined rather broadly. I shudder to remember. Could I really have been so callous, so detached from my own compassion? How far would I have gone then? If I killed a ram, what reasoning could take me further? Could I be convinced to kill a human being?
A white rabbit appeared in my yard one gloomy day. It came eagerly to the grain in my outstretched hand. A pet. For a week, I tried to find the owner, but it had been dumped, like unwanted dogs and cats are dumped when no one wants them or cares enough to find them a good home. It felt strange to relate to this animal as a pet. When I sat on the floor, it hopped fearlessly into my lap. As I stroked its soft fur, ghosts of the rabbits I had killed and eaten haunted me. I looked into its pink bunny eyes and vowed: this rabbit will have a different fate.