Coop de Grace

We're kind up up to our asses in chickens, at the moment. And at least 4 of them are not really chickens we want.
For example, the two adopted black chickens still seem a bit lost. Ying has recovered well from her fall--bit of a crooked leg, but she's totally mobile--but neither of them seems to know how to roost.
That goes for the teenagers, too, those two RIR boys. One of them is currently sleeping on the floor of the new cage, because whenever his feet touched the perch he flipped out and flung himself away from it.
On the bright side, at least one of the black hens is laying, and the vicious one hasn't attacked me lately.
On the other hand, we have at least two roosters that will need to be dealt with.
We recently met a couple that lives near here and is farming a piece of land, with greenhouses and chickens, so far. The woman is a folk singer named Kathy that I've actually known a long time, though not well. I think I bought some plants from her once. She told me that she was a vegetarian for a long time, but had started eating meat recently and felt the better for it, though it was still an ethical dilemma for her. She and her partner--husband--consort? Andy decided the solution to that was to raise their own meat.
There isn't room for all the roosters in the world. They fight, they distress the hens, they attack things. (All except for Binky, of course.)They crow a lot, and even more if there are several in hearing distance.
So, while pounding down glasses of red plonk at James's house, I proposed to Jordan that I might give the clueless RIR adolescents to Kathy and Andy, for eating. James said, you know, if you want someone to eat your chickens, I'd like to get in on that. At which point Jordan said, yeah, if it's our chicken, I want to eat it too.
I can talk about this in the abstract well enough. When I think about the idea of it I can be detached, and it doesn't really bother me. I even wonder if I might like to eat some rooster and dumplings, or coque au vin.
It's not until I picture how the killing will actually happen, the boiling and beheading (not necessarily in that order), see in my mind's eye those legs like an ostrich with strong yellow feet always running around our land chasing toads, or think of the way they grasp my finger when I carry them to their coop every night-- sort of scaly, warm and dry, reflexive like a baby when you put your finger it its hand--the though of ripping that leg or a wing off to gnaw it--that's when the idea turns on me, and the fact of death, deadness and death, of stolen life, the slack slide into decay, all of that is what I do not want in my body.
All of that feels like poison to my soul. And if that sounds melodramatic, well, it is. I recognize that. And I recognize that only the sheer ridiculous wealth of food in our culture makes my diet at all reasonable: after the revolution, we'll be glad of a few roosters to stew up with our lima beans and okra. It still stands that when I ask the spirits for guidance they very strongly say I must not eat animals.
The next part of this thorny issue is that IF we decide the Jordan is going to kill and eat our chickens, where will her do it? It's hardly practical to do it in town at Trish's house, and I REALLY don't think she'd like that.
And I can't let it happen here. I don't want that to happen to an animal in my care on my land.