This week started out badly with the loss of two of our chickens. A raccoon pulled Snowy and Wild through the cage and made a terrible mess of our little baby birds.
I am not made for this. The loss of Sara’s bees and the loss of our little chicks makes me incredibly sad. I am too much of a softy. And I am not a farmer. I am not accustomed to the burst of life and noise and then the empty quiet. I felt sick with the awareness of the fragility of life.
Judging by the looks of the lurking raccoon I chased up a tree yesterday, I think she is a new mama trying to provide for her kits. I get it. She is merely doing her job. But I can’t stand my role in keeping chickens captive and leaving them as sitting victims. They are too small to freely roam outside their cage, and I feel guilty that they are in such a restricted environment. After the attack, I felt all week like a failed mother who left my little chicks in an unsafe home.
I am much more comfortable with the world of vegetables and earth. I much prefer to grow vegetables and fruits. And after cleaning up the mess, I felt a deeper connection to the pull of reality that happens when we come face-to-face with our food sources. If we were all responsible for butchering our own meals, would we consume as much meat as we do?