I got to do some target practice on moving targets Saturday, and let me tell you, shooting chickens in the head as they run about in a panic is tougher than it looks.
Our 11 hens and one rooster had come to the end of the road. They didn’t know it, but I did. Fifteen chicks are scheduled to ship Monday from McMurray Hatchery, and I have learned from experience that baby chicks without a mother to protect them are killed by more aggressive grown-up chickens. Because my existing chickens were almost three years old and were running out of egg-laying steam, it was time for them to go. We had gone from producing 18 eggs a day two years ago to just three to five, not enough to justify their feed bill.
I have butchered chickens before. I usually grab one, put it in the killing cone, and cut its throat. The cone keeps it from running around “like a chicken with its head cut off”—and yes, that’s a real thing. The chicken bodies flop around, the legs kick and the wings flap, even if their heads are lying on the ground at your feet.
The downside of the killing cone is that after you do a couple this way, the other chickens catch on. Maybe it’s the smell of the blood, but they get antsy. That makes them difficult to catch, and some of them will peck and scratch. I once shot an extra rooster with a .22, so I figured that might be the way to go.
Gearing up for the Slaughter
On Saturday morning, instead of feeding the chickens, I set out to kill them. Instead of filling the bucket with feed and the cup with scratch, I strapped a Becker combat knife on my left hip and threw on a shoulder holster holding my .22 caliber 1911 and went forth to do my job. My wife was out, and I wanted to get it done before she came home.
As I approached, the chickens gathered near the fence, expecting me to let them out for some free-ranging. The rooster—who I wanted to kill first so he wouldn’t try to protect the hens—was at the back of the flock. My plans of chopping off heads in the killing cone vanished as I drew my gun, snicked off the safety, and shot him right in the head.
“Bam!” Well, I was using a suppressor and subsonic ammo, so it was more of a “pop.”
The rooster went down like he’d been pole-axed. He rolled over onto his back. His legs kicked and then his feet curled in the air. The other birds rushed away, heading for the far corner, putting as much distance between them and me as possible.
Pop! Another one flopped down. “Pop,” that one moved its head and my shot missed to the left. In defensive shooting classes, they teach us to aim center of mass because head shots are harder to make. People turn their heads, they move and twist. Just as the assassin in Pennsylvania missed President Trump, I missed the chicken. But I wanted to go for the headshots, figuring it was not only more effective but more merciful. Besides, when you hunt turkey, you go for the head and neck. I figured the same would apply to chickens.
Carcass Disposal
Now the chickens are milling about. Not one is still. I aim. Pop! This bird did a somersault and flopped around before succumbing. That alarmed the other chickens even more. I got six birds with ten shots. One I had to shoot twice, just to put it out of its misery.
I swapped in a fresh magazine, chambered a round, and set the safety before re-holstering. I entered the chicken run and nudged two birds with the toe of my boot. Yep, they were dead. I grabbed them by their feet and tossed them over the fence. Then I left the run, collected the birds, and headed a couple hundred feet into the woods where I left the carcasses for the coyotes or whatever else might find them.
By the time I got back, the chickens had calmed down. One of them was pecking at one of the dead birds. Pop! She joined them. Then I noticed the rooster was sitting upright. Don’t ask me how, but it had managed to roll over and regain its balance. It wasn’t moving or walking, but neither were its eyes filmed over like the dead ones. It was as if it had come back from the dead.
Pop! And then one more to be sure: Pop!
Damn zombie roosters. The lore says to shoot zombies in the head; it worked.
I piled the rooster and some of the other dead birds in the back of the side-by-side and drove off to toss their remains down the mountain. There are going to be some well-fed coyotes. I just have to hope none of them turn into zombies.
By the time I was done, there was blood splattered on the ground and it smelled like, well, like a slaughterhouse.
Clean Up and Preparations
We had a neighbor who wanted chicken poop to fertilize her garden, so I didn’t clean out the chicken house until she showed up. Then we gave her two wheelbarrow-loads. The rest went into our compost pile.
Our garden is doing pretty well. The radishes look ready to harvest soon. Our peas are blooming and the beans are growing, but the cucumber plants are still pretty small. My wife’s peppers look good, but her eggplants don’t. The jury is still out on whether they will make it through the summer, but we put the chicken bedding laced with poop on the raised beds every fall, and it usually gives the garden a nice boost.
With the chickens gone, I left the coop doors propped open to let it air out. I did my best to scrape and clean it. Once I have an ETA for the chicks, I’ll put down a couple of layers of newspaper or some cardboard and then scatter straw on it. I picked up the heater, chick feeder, and waterer from the storage unit when I returned some of the honey harvesting equipment. I already have 50 pounds of medicated chick feed ready and waiting.
My plan is to install the divider and let the chicks use half the coop. Once they get a few weeks old and feather out, we can give them access to the rest of it. At six or eight weeks, I’ll let them out into the chicken run.
Livestock Life and Death
If you have never raised livestock, let me just remind you that killing livestock is normal and expected. These are not pets; I don’t give them names, and I don’t hesitate to kill them. The way I look at it, they would never have been born unless we wanted eggs. I gave them a pretty good life, but they outlived their usefulness. In fact, I should have killed them last summer. I won’t make that mistake again; I’ll get new chickens every two years from now on instead of waiting three.
If you are wondering why we did not eat them, it’s because three-year-old chickens, known as “spent hens,” are tough and wiry, especially if they free range. We’ve tried eating them, and it just isn’t worth it when I can go out and buy a tender rotisserie chicken for $6.
If this were a survival situation, we would have used the chickens to make stock, soup, or stew. They would still be tough, but they could at least flavor food. Boiling the flesh or slow cooking can help soften spent hens and make their meat more palatable. Plus, we might be so hungry we would look forward to tough, unappetizing chicken. After all, it would still have calories and valuable protein. But I have butchered chickens on two occasions, and while I can and would do so again if necessary, it is not yet necessary.
Killing chickens and bringing in new chicks is just part of the cycle of life here on the homestead. In five months, we’ll have a steady supply of fresh eggs for eating and selling. Or to provide calories if the SHTF.
