The best way to efficiently kill a chicken, as far as I know, is to lop off its head. Next best is to break its neck. Neither method appeals to me. I don’t eat chickens—I certainly don’t want to kill them. But when one is an urban chicken farmer, as I was off and on for years, one stands the risk of having to take out a bird now and then. Chicken execution proved to be necessary with my flock last fall when I got a call from Starsky, my then roommate, informing me that the dogs had gotten into the chicken pen. Of my four birds, one was dead, one was hunkered down trembling, one was missing, and a fourth was flopping around, no hope for survival. I was at Warren’s house at the time. We were early into our relationship and he’d already witnessed enough drama—for being incredibly popular often comes with a component of frequent high drama—that I feared enlisting his help might be some last straw for him. I got off the phone and faux-bravely announced I had to run home and slaughter a bird and I’d be right back. ...