Blood on my Hands: An Update on Charlie by Deena Dawn Larsen

As I write this, Charlie is possibly no more. If you recall, you know that my friend Rich sold his house and needed to rehome his chickens. His rooster, Charlie, was part of the arrangement. Initially I balked at taking him but eventually, I caved.

Charlie came to live in our yard, protecting the hens in his care. The feminist in me correctly believed that my hens didn’t need protecting. Smash the patriarchy! As I wrote in an earlier blog, Charlie terrorized us. If he was out, I never traveled without a stick or some implement that I could use to defend myself. I also would take the long way to the garage or the door to the house.

Well, two days ago, Linda let the chickens out to free-range. The hens were excited to get out and they ran with exuberance. Linda playfully ran with them. They ran faster. And it should be noted, if you have never seen a chicken run, you are missing out! Such a goofy display of awkwardness is a real treat to be experienced. They are surprisingly fast, especially these Americaunas. Unfortunately, Charlie was having none of this. I’m not Dr. Doolittle and I can’t presume to get in the mind of a chicken but I suspect he thought they were threatened in some way. He pursued them and caught up to Linda, puncturing her legs in three places before she could get inside to safety. As Linda described it, the event was terrorizing and triggering. Yesterday involved a trip to Urgent Care to get antibiotics to treat the infection that set in and was quickly spreading in her skin. When we got home, my task was to dig a rooster grave. If you know me, you know this was a tearful experience. I picked

a suitable location in the yard and as I passed the chicken pen, I paused to feed the chickens, some grains and some dried corn, knowing full well that this was Charlie’s last meal. One of my coworkers told me that he had a friend who might possibly take Charlie. Thoughts of Charlie living out his days in a pasture on a farm in the country gave me some hope that his life could be spared. Last evening, I texted my friend to find out the answer. I felt like I was awaiting word on the governor's pardon. Sadly, it was denied and the execution would move forward. This ethical dilemma has been a challenge for me. I have tried to explain to people that yes, I care about Linda and I support her but I also have empathy for another living being. I think I am allowed to have opposing views in my head at the same time, although it is a source of conflict and stress. It is reminiscent of presenting as male for decades when I identified as female.

I am wrestling with hypocrisy and a challenge to my core values. I have been a vegetarian for 38 years and I believe that life is sacred. I cannot be responsible for taking another life. For years, I protested war for an hour every Friday, carrying a sign on a street corner, but yet, I continue to pay taxes to a government that funds the most powerful killing machine on the planet. I am against the death penalty; the voice of Gandhi, the man of non-violence, resonates in my brain.

Rich, who gave me Charlie, offered to dispatch Charlie, at Linda’s request. I played a linguistic game so that it isn’t me requesting it, Linda is. But if I am honest, I am the one who pulled the figurative trigger. And Rich’s use of the word “dispatch” intrigued me. I think of a 911 dispatcher who sends help, a positive connotation. When I looked up the formal definition, it also can mean, “to deal with a task or problem or opponent quickly and efficiently.”

Preparing to leave for work early, I heard Charlie crow for the last time. Tears flow as I write this. I feel that I failed Charlie. I wasn’t able to help Charlie understand that we were on his side; we wanted the same things. I left for a coffee shop and then to work so I won’t be around when the deed is done. Perhaps this makes me a coward. I guess you could say I’m chicken.