Chicken Shit

Andrew Miller

 

The nails were set in the stump like an unfinished V, not quite connecting at a point, at least not above the Ash wood they were driven into. Each one blackened and rust colored, mostly from age, partly from duty. Over time much more efficient ways have been developed, but as a ten-year-old I would use this rudimentary contraption—once, twice—then try to never again imagine it.

“Hurry up,” Mr. Brown said. His overalls caked with muck. “If you’re gonna do it, do it now, otherwise give me the damn bird.”

Holding boney legs tightly between the fingers of my left hand, I was concerned I might break them, or be unnecessarily hurtful. A distraction from what was to come. My right hand holding the base of the skull, the wings and torso trapped between my ribs and bicep. Two racing heartbeats indistinguishable from one another.

This bird is meant to be part of the week ending dinner that Mrs. Brown prepares for all of us farm hands. Those meals always begin with Mr. Brown’s prayer; “From the Bible we know that God blessed Noah and his sons saying, ‘Be fruitful and multiply and fill the earth. Every moving thing that lives shall be food for you. As I gave you the green plants, I give you everything.’ Let’s give thanks to God for these fruits of our labor, and another week of good work. Amen.”

A wad of dark brown chew and phlegm rifled toward my feet.

“Stretch it quick,” Mr. Brown said.

In an awkward, first timer’s motion, I pushed the neck down between the nails, into the V, but the squawk of the broiler startled me, and I let go too soon; wings beating against my low-slung head. I released the legs, giving the hen another few minutes to live.

“God damn, boy. This is why you get called chicken shit,” Mr. Brown said. Several other boys laughed, although none of them volunteered to go first.

Believing it was free, the bird didn’t run – instead it pecked the ground for bugs and seeds mere steps from where it too would give its life for another.

“I’m no chicken shit,” I said, swooping the bird back up under my arm, determined not to have a third try.

Under the sound of the bird’s squawk, a subtle pop, then silence as the heavy hatchet blade severed head from heart.

 

Andrew Miller is an Ohio based writer and photographer who is definitely not the ex-Cleveland Indians pitcher. His award winning personal essay collection, “If Only The Names Were Changed” (CCM, 2016), does, however, include a rather unflattering baseball connection. He earned his MFA at Miami University.