burying one hundred dead baby chicks
i’ve been too tired to write this week really, but the subject matter is quickly mounting. earlier this week we had a small tragedy on the farm. two of the dogs we care for—came with the property—weasled their way through the fence, into our fields, and entered our baby chicken brooder. out of the one hundred and fifty two-week old chicks we were raising, one hundred had been slain.
death is an ever present aspect of farming. when our animals face death to be slaughtered for meat, we feel satisfied as farmers for having provided the animals with a healthy, stress free life. we rest easy knowing we offered it love, and paid it respects. when, however, a hundred baby chicks die because a farm dog wanted to have a good time, the loss is harder to swallow. on most farms, an offense like this would be followed by yet another death—gun to dog.
with death comes the rebirth, and back to the earth go our chicks. the flies and the maggots, and that gruesome bridge from dark to light, just another forward step in the same beautiful cycle. the birds are gone for now, but they’ll be back.
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