The Sad Story of Jessup Hush'up

The Tuesday after we married, Ian brought home three hens and a rooster. His co-worker had a friend who needed to get rid of all four birds, and Ian had agreed to take them.

Being a responsible pet owner, I scurried to prepare for the new birds' arrival:

Laura: "We'll name the hens Maybelle, Caroline, and Polly. And the rooster shall be Jessup."

I knew we had entered troubling times when I pulled into the driveway that evening and immediately heard the ear-piercing sounds of the rooster crowing.

The rooster crowed non-stop. I'm talking every ten seconds. I walked to the backyard and stared at the monstrous chicken:

Laura: "That thing's gotta go."

Ian: "He's been crowing all day. All day. He never stops. I thought he might slow down once he settled in. But he keeps crowing."

Laura: "Jessup's full name is Jessup Hush'up."

We attempted to hush up Jessup by covering his cage and placing him in the barn. Jessup continued to send his crows blaring through the neighborhood.

Ian: "I keep waiting for the neighbors to call the cops. Should we kill him?"

Laura: "We have to. Loud roosters are prohibited. We can't let him crow all night."

Ian: "Are you sure we want to kill him?"

Laura: "We can either slaughter him now, as humanely as possible, or we can wait until two in the morning when I'll stamp outside, all sleep-deprived and pissed off, and kill him in a murderous rage. We should do it now."

Neither of us have a natural inclination to kill chickens. We picked up Jessup and stared at him and tried to work up the nerve to turn him into dinner.

I was too squeamish to watch, so Ian carried out the task. Through the flurry of feathers and chicken blood, I contributed by making encouraging comments:

Laura: "The honeymoon ends so quickly. One minute you're marrying the man of your dreams and the next you're watching him execute a chicken."

After Jessup breathed his last breathe, we stuck the him in boiling water for ten seconds and then plucked the feathers.

I read instructions aloud from Google on how to gut a chicken, but by the time I reached the section entitled, "How to Disembowel Your Chicken: Ten Easy Steps to Removing the Anus," we decided we only wanted the legs.

Ian chopped off the legs and some of the breast and disposed the rest of the carcass in the trash.

Ian: "Keep your voice down. The neighbors will wonder what the hell we're doing."

Laura: "WHAT'S THAT, IAN? YOU WANT TO HIDE THE BODY IN THE BARN?"

Ian seasoned the meat with chili powder and sea salt and stuck it in the oven. After it cooked, he ate the chicken breasts.

Laura: "Is it good? What's it taste like?"

Ian: "It tastes like chicken."

Laura: "Wow!"

Ian: "Aren't you going to eat some?"

Laura: "Gross. No."

The legs were overcooked and dry, so Ian and the dog split up the rest of the chicken meat.

Ian: "Winnie loves this stuff. She's begging for more... She's gonna fart blood tomorrow."

Laura: "There's a chicken demon in your stomach. But you made that entire meal, from start to finish."

Ian: "I don't know whether to feel ashamed or proud. I guess Jessup's in a better place now."

And he was.