Still Warm Under My Hands

The air is crisp and cool as I exit the artificial warmth of the car. It’s early on a fall morning, a soft mist is rising over the fields. The cows are standing leisurely, waiting to be milked, peacefully puffing little clouds of steam out on their breath. The only sound is the rhythmic, mechanical hum and chug coming from the milking parlour. All else is still. It would be a peaceful morning, but the task I'm here for weighs on my mind. I find no solace in this gentle farmyard scene.

Up at the trailer, I change into an old button up shirt and coveralls; clothes I don’t mind getting dirty. I take off my warm shoes and slip my feet into the rubber boots I left on the front porch. They’re stiff with cold and my feet are instantly chilled as I slide them inside. I clump down the stairs and out to the coop.

One of the ducks hatched a clutch of eggs earlier this year, and through the spring and summer I enjoyed watching as the little family paraded around the farm. They would waddle single file just like in the cartoons. The babies sounding their beep beep beeps, as they tried to keep up. One day they wandered into the milking parlour and two of the little ones got cut off from the group. They called out frantically until I chased them out, and they reunited with the family. They’ve all grown to full size now, and only two are male. One has a lame wing; no one knows how it happened. He is small and quiet and stays out of trouble. The other is big and strong, and has been fighting with the only other drake on the farm, the father, each trying to be Alpha. The fights are getting vicious. There is only room for one big drake on this farm. Since the old guy won’t be good for eating, and since the farmers have a sentimental attachment to him, I’ve been given the young one. The only catch? Getting him on the table is up to me.

I grew up in the country, but I am not a farm kid. And though I want to be more connected to where my food comes from, I am realizing the idea and the reality exist worlds apart for me. There are two of us, and my partner has offered to be the one holding the knife. I am immensely grateful to him for that. My job will be to wrap the duck up in a blanket and hold him down so the cut will be clean and quick. I’ve seen some of the fights these two drakes have had, even tried to break one up with the handle of my pitch fork. I have an idea of his substantial strength.

I walk out through the soggy yard to the coop, rubber boots being sucked into the mud with each step. The plan is to open the coop door and throw the blanket over him as he comes out. I will hold him down while my partner ties his head back and does a quick cut. I wait at the door, blanket ready, and toss it over him. I wrestle him to the ground. My partner ties him down and readies the knife. But suddenly everything is going wrong; he is stronger than I expected, and he’s freed his head. He’s thrashing under my weight, pushing against me. My heart is pounding and I think for a moment that I won’t be able to hold him. Suddenly, I don’t want to. Suddenly, this feels so wrong, and I want to be anywhere but here doing anything but this. It’s taking too long, his muscular neck is thicker than either of us expected and this whole task has become so difficult and so real. After another tense moment, I regain control. The knife is through and now it’s done. The struggle subsides; I can feel the fight going out of him.

I don’t cry but I know I could if I let myself. I’ve never been witness to this moment before; watching, feeling as the life drains from a body still warm under my hands.

Once again everything is still. The milking machine continues its monotonous hum. The cows stand and chew, gaze lazily around the yard. A warm morning sun is peeking through the now risen clouds; I can feel it warming my cool cheeks. Everywhere around me everything is normal, only I am different. This life will not be wasted. I’ll prepare a meal and I'll be grateful. But I wonder if I’ll be able to put it out of my head. My secret knowledge of a pool of blood, soaked into the field by the coop.