Playing God with Chickens (or Playing Chicken with Gods)

by Victor Bravo Monchego, Jr.

Animals have been my best teachers when it comes to life’s big lessons. Unlike too many humans, animals teach by the creed: Show, Don’t Tell. Animals never pontificate.

There was the Canadian goose that I shot, not so deftly, on the bank of the Platte River. That goose taught me about the responsibility of power.

My dogs, over the years, have taught me about loyalty and unconditional love, even when I’ve behaved badly if not inexcusably. It is possible to forgive those who have trespassed and harmed you the most.

I’ve outlived many generations of pets. This metering has tried to instruct me about impermanence, the reckoning of our lives, and the hazards of procrastinating away important dreams and goals.

My most recent coach is a Sicilian named Butter Cup. She is a chicken. Last night, I found Butter Cup on the bottom of the coop, badly wounded. She was twisting and quivering in the guano beneath her sisters’ perch. One eye was working, one was not. Her neck was badly wracked, mortally by my assessment. Butter Cup dropped me off at a moral crossroads:

To the north was the road to mercy; kill Butter Cup and end her suffering. An honest, practical man would have Butter Cup for tomorrow’s dinner, too.

To the south led the road of compassion. Care for the bird and attempt to mend her. Should the matter of her being born Gallus gallus instead of Homo sapiens make a difference in a Zen cosmic scheme?

Either direction, south or north, were morally equivalent in my mind. They were both acceptable decisions.

To the west, there was no trail. It was bushwackery. The choice was to do nothing, feel nothing. Return to the house, pop a Schlitz and watch The Real Housewives of Orange County. In other words, let Butter Cup die in the dung.

I did feel something. I was empathetic but a type of fear was meddling with me. I lacked the conviction for a merciful execution or for a compassionate doctoring, because let’s face it; doctoring is messy. Doctoring often requires impounding the injured while tending the wound.

As Master Yoda forewarned, fear turns to anger. I was becoming angry with myself because I knew I lacked conviction. I was judging myself because I couldn’t end the bird’s misery, and too inept to nurse it.

Fortunately, I knew a back road. I chose the path to the east, the coward’s way: I called in my virtuous spouse who possesses a braver constitution. She has the ability to act decently, in most situations, without pondering. She lives in a world of black and white, where mine tends to be all shades of gray, not to mention yellow.

So now we have a gimpy chicken recovering in our shower stall. According to the vet, Butter Cup does not have a broken neck. She has neurological damage which may or may not be permanent. The vet said, it looks like the results of a hawk attack. We should know in the next few days, if she improves.

For now, we are hydrating Butter Cup’s crop and feeding her by force. She is crippled. Feeding requires sliding a tube down her gullet several times a day. This is the same way geese are fattened for pate. Like most patients, Butter Cup is adjusting to the unpleasant procedure.

So the easterly coward’s path eventually turned southward. Thank the gods I don’t walk alone.