Tale 1: Simple And True
Blindey is a chicken. She was born to produce eggs for us, and eventually, meat. Blindey died so we could eat chicken. THE END
Tale 2: Complicated And True
Somewhere in India, roughly 45 years ago, a baby girl was born into a family belonging to one of the more privileged classes. Around the same time, a baby boy was born into a lower class family. The girl and the boy grew up and met each other, threw societal expectations to the wind, and married. Eventually they moved to Montana, where my family has had the honor of making their acquaintance.
Last Friday, we were invited to a dinner that our two Indian friends prepared at our cousin's home in Lakeside. We feasted on curried chicken, lemon chicken kabobs, coconut rice, Chai, cilantro-chili paste, and mango chutney. As happens when there is an open invitation to "invite friends and come eat Indian food," a crowd of 45 - 50 people wandered in as the night progressed. Dinner and visiting carried on late. Zoralee didn't get to sleep that night until 11:30 p.m.
Her napping schedule for the next two days was kiddywomped. On Sunday, I had just put her down, when I heard the neighbor dog barking outside near her bedroom window. Not wanting anything to even stir Zoralee, I threw open the window and gave a hushed holler, which startled the dog. He'd been on edge anyway, barking at a long, burnt orange coat that I'd received from my great Aunt. The coat is hanging ominously on the back porch to air out and hopefully stop having Old Clothing Smell. The dog ran home.
Which now, in hindsight, I regret, because the neighbor dog is a good dog. We like for him to be here whenever he gets the urge; he chases off a red fox that comes to our meadow eyeballing the chickens. He is a good protector. And maybe, if I hadn't chased him off on Saturday, he'd have been around on Monday, today, when another dog, rescued as a puppy from a terrible situation by a construction worker who is now working at a site near our home, came into our yard and tossed old Blindey around.
Blindey was in bad shape after the tossing. She laid there, back feathers all missing, her neck punctured beyond repair. I petted her and calmed her for awhile, before Dad came out with the chopping block to end it. And tomorrow we shall have chicken, because Blindey died. But Blindey also died so that we could eat another chicken or chickens - last Friday night, with our friends from India who are here in America together, in part because their love overcame the caste system.