Pono
To the best of my memory, the first time I ever killed on purpose was stomping on an ant colony outside my front yard.
There was a big oak tree out front whose roots pushed against the cement, creating tectonic fractures that lifted the sidewalk out of place. The ants found a home in these concrete canyons, scurrying through the miniature city beneath our feet. I watched as the boys on my block - Franky, Matthew, Ricky, and my brothers - killed them with the stomp of their shoes.
I joined, my light-up sneakers flashing in the heels.
Since then, I’ve killed cockroaches in my first apartment in Austin, TX, pack rats terrorizing our garden outside Fort Collins, Colorado, and countless mosquitos snacking on my skin on the beach of Otter Tail Lake in Minnesota.
I’ve mercilessly ripped the heads off any ticks I found burrowing in my dog’s fur that summer we spent hiking in the Hudson Valley.
Each year, I thin seedlings in the garden, plucking the weaker, spindly starts from the earth so the stronger ones can grow and take up more space.
I’ve killed things before. Lots of things. But this rooster feels different.
I fed him.
I cared for him.
I protected him.
As a chick, I watched him discover his place in the flock, instinctively exploring his environment, perching on top of the brooder’s water feeder like it was a lookout tower.
His voice is the first I hear most mornings - the unmistakable 5:30AM alarm clock that lets the flock (and me) know it’s time to start moving and foraging.
I’ve learned his silly little mating dance, where he shuffles and sidesteps frantically around a hen. I also know his dramatic look of disappointment when the hen ignores his pleas.
Fear, guilt, the weight of responsibility - these emotions churned in my unsettled stomach.
For those who have never tried to catch a free ranging aggressive rooster, it’s like trying to catch a squirrel with your bare hands. We waited until the flock had gone inside the coop for the evening, knowing our best chance was to catch him while he was resting.
We spotted the rooster on his usual perch - right in the center, surrounded by hens, on the longest roosting bar at the back of the coop. Drew swiftly grabbed him, pinning his wings tightly against his body.
He didn’t fight us at all.
We walked to the chopping block Drew had set up in the center of the yard, a scrap piece of wood clamped to a sawhorse. He hammered four nails, two rows of two, into the wood.
“Somewhere we can wedge the rooster’s neck into and keep him still,” Drew explained to me.
I knew this moment weighed heavily on Drew’s spirit. He wasn’t looking forward to ending a life. He wanted it to be as fast and as painless as possible.
I held the head lamp for visibility as Drew slid the rooster onto his belly between the nails.
There was no protest.
No resistance.
No fight.
On Drew’s signal, I reached for the hatchet waiting in the hammer loop of his pants, and passed it to him.
Drew took a steadying breath. Without taking his eyes off the rooster, he whispered, “Pono.”
As he raised the hatchet and struck strong and true, I silently recited the full Hawaiian Ho’oponopono prayer that we learned from my brother during his stint in Waianae on the west side of Oahu.
I love you.
Thank you.
I forgive you.
Please forgive me.
No one tells you that after a chicken dies, even with its head no longer attached, it will kick and flap its wings. It comes in two stages: one immediately, and another about thirty seconds later. The bird is dead, but residual electrical impulses and energy trigger involuntary movement.
There’s a very thin line between life and death. We all walk it every day, not even realizing how close we are to it.
We cleaned the fallen feathers, hosed down the blood that got very sticky very fast, and disposed of the carcass. We worked in silence under the luminescence of the full moon.
There was no relief. No satisfaction. Just the uncomfortable knowledge that sometimes doing the responsible thing still feels terrible.
I love you.
Thank you.
I forgive you.
Please forgive me.
I’m still not sure which one of us needed those words more.
