The Highlands Study Center has a publication, entitled Every Though Captive. In times past, at the end of each issue was Dr. Sproul's "Chicken Report" a monthly update on his successes and failures in poulty production. This post is about how I made it into the Chicken Report.
As a student, living with the Sprouls, I had obigation to perform a certain number of hours' labor each week. The labor varied from chopping firewood to polishing the family van to taking care of chickens. By taking care, I don't mean the default assumption of feeding and watering. That was involved, and being the resident expert, my knowledge of poultry biology was inquired of not infrequently.
One day, Dr. Sproul approached me with a problem. He had five chickens, the first he had ever raised. He loved those chickens, but they just weren't producing. Something had to be done. Being his first, he didn't have the heart to eat them or kill them, but economics dictated their removal. Hence, my services were procured. I was to be the grim reaper, the one between them and their end: The eternal garbage can.
So, I set my face to my task, and proceeded to it in the cleanliest fashion I knew. I would grab one by the neck, swing it round and round, and snap its neck. A quick, clean, though dizzying, painless death. I had done three, and was proceeding to the fourth, when I heard an exclaimation to my right. There was the little Sproul boy watching wide eyed in wonder. At that moment I snapped the chicken, and to my surprise I found myself holding only the head. I looked, and there was the rest of the chicken running around the other side of the pen.
After that I was the hero of many stories, not the least of which was one installment in "The Chicken Report."
