So I told Paul he had to kill J-Lo, but that I'd be there with him when he did it, for support. Well, that didn't last long at all. We locked the dogs on the deck and took J-Lo down to the garage in a box and when Paul took her out, I burst out crying like a complete twat. Not crying-crying. No, full on, gasping for air crying. Loser. Went inside and out to the back deck. Paul tells me he has tried to snap her neck, but she just said "tweet" and was ok again after he tried to snap her neck. I.e. alive. Well HELLO! So after a spray of words (on my part), he did the deed with the axe, which took the head off in one hit. Then he freaked out because she was flapping around, and the body fell on the ground. Lovely. Just lovely. She's resting in the freezer of the beer fridge, until bin day.
I never thought I'd get attached to a chicken, but she was the only one out of these little bastards, that had any manners. She was the only one who officially had a name! We can't tell the others apart, and they're all angry and rude and have redneck names like Billy-Bob and Clancy.
Next time, I think I'll call my neighbour over. He's from a farming background and I think he might have slightly larger balls than Paul.
I think I just burned 900 calories. At least.