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There's no way around the fact that if you eat meat you have blood on your hands. When I worked on a farm, the long afternoons spent slaughtering chickens helped shape my belief that all meat eaters should, at least once, kill and butcher an animal. It's the only way to really comprehend what you're eating.
But when I began raising chickens in my yard, I made a promise to never kill them. Living in close proximity made them family to me, with names and distinct personalities. I felt that killing them would cut too close to home.
Even after they stopped laying, I put the hens out to the happiest pasture I could. All they had to do was survive the coyotes, raccoons, skunks, owls, falcons, ravens, bobcats, neighbor dogs, and chick-gobbling rattlesnakes long enough to hit menopause, and this cushy retirement package would be theirs.