We had this little hen for a while. She was a gift from my mum's aunt, who had quite a few chooks at her farm. For a few weeks, we kept the hen in the courtyard of my grandma's apartment. She was pretty tough as chickens go, in fact we'd thought she was a small rooster until she started laying an egg each day. When I went out each morning, I promised that I'd take a photo of her before she was made into chicken soup, but somehow I always forgot. We'd have kept her as a pet if there was more room, but inevitably her life was over the day she was given to us. I think they slaughtered her a few days after I left for Melbourne.
I remember when I was about 8, the same great aunt gave us a rooster. He was also slaughtered and eaten a week later. My cousin and I sat at the dinner table both disgusted and tempted by the wafts of delicious smells. But we kept our integrity and didn't eat a bite. The next day we found some of the bird's feathers and buried them solemnly in a nearby construction site.
There is something about the hopeless deaths of those chickens that disturbed me. I have a theory that this is a reflection of my fear of my own mortality.
"La Mere Poule" by Picasso
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