#slaughter day

Dzień we krwi

aka Slaughter Day

aka Situation 

aka Deadline

Director: Peter Patzak

1974

imdb

I’m on a chicken farm, right? Just imagine hundreds of chickens of different varieties running around, with roosters cawing constantly, and also there are turkeys. I didn’t know it was a chicken farm when I came here. Lesson #1 in Woofing: ask questions. 

Anyway. Today, for 720 of those chickens, it’s the end. It’s Slaughter Day. Last night, we caged them and stacked those on the truck to be taken away early this morning by my host. She’s delivering a bunch to Montreal after they’re toast.

When I grew up, I remember always having chickens. I’d help feed and water the small herd, and I liked getting the eggs every morning. I liked picking them up and petting them because they’re so soft. The last batch we got, we didn’t eat because they got too old. But before that batch, we ate them. I wasn’t allowed to watch, but I tried sneaking a peak of the process, because I was a truly morbid child. 

The process of rounding up the chickens last night was different, however. We waited until dark and closed the chickens (the non-laying variety) in their barn, like we do every night. But this time, we had the side door open and the crates waiting. 

My host taught me and Aurelie, the other volunteer here, how to pick up the chickens--by the legs, as it hurts them less. Me and Aurelie were put off by the violent flapping that ensued said grabbing-chickens-by-the-legs, but were soon pros, emerging from the barn with a chicken in each hand. But no one was was impressive as my host, Lucie, who’d come out with six chickens at a time.

At first, it was kind of sad--the kind of sad people get when they see where their food really comes from, and then want to become vegan for life and set all livestock free. The chickens, since the barn was dark, started to cuddle together and go to sleep. And even when you started to round them up, they didn’t run away because they couldn’t see anything. 

But then . . . You get used to it. You get used to hunting for the biggest ones, and if you can’t tell when they were all cuddled together, you can just pick one up and let it flap, and the others would stand up so you can choose your next victim more wisely. You get used to the chickens becoming docile when all the blood rushes to their heads. You get used to the drool that starts pouring out of their mouth when they’re upside down. Um, kind of.

It was interesting that the typical reaction of preparing animals for slaughter, which is sadness, fades after a few dozen birds have passed through your hands. Meaning in most of the cases where someone who’s never really seen that process gets so dejected they swear off meat for life, if they stomached more than one round of the process, they’d just . . . get used to it, and it wouldn’t bother them so much, and they’d eat meat in peace. 

Of course, these were free-range birds with a pretty good life, and seeing the deplorable conditions of most cattle, pig, and chicken operations . . . that’s a different story. I think you could get used to that, too--but no one should. Ever.

It's weird to still have class when everything is closed

Today we celebrate the massacre of the natives

Land of the free

Maybe that's why every job is closed

Optical Illusions

Logic is logic to some

And to others it's opinion

Just like Big things and Little things

They differ

I'm looking at life eyes open

Everyone around me still has blinders on

Be free and everything will come to you