I like to think I’m a spiritual type, respectful of all religions and beliefs.
Some may say I’m a deep thinker, too deep at times. Which, of course, got me thinking.
If reincarnation is a thing, and there’s the possibility that we can come back as animals … stick with me here, I don’t think I’ve quite lost my mind, although others may beg to differ.
I wonder if there is a St Peter and he/she does really stand at the pearly gates to welcome all-comers, maybe he’s got a list of all the animals we’ve eaten during our lifetime.
Then, for all our sins, we must return as those animals before we are again allowed to be human.
Looking back at the number of quarter chicken and chip packs, and how many barbecued chickens I’ve snavelled from the supermarket at 5pm when they mark down the price by $2, that means over my lifetime I’ve probably averaged a chicken a week.
Sure, there are anomalies in the equation. Mushy chicken as a child, weeks of beefy persuasion, and are nuggets really chicken.
But let’s work with the average over 60 or so years. That’s 3120 times I’ll be returning to Earth, or whichever other planet in the cosmos – assuming it too has chickens – has signed on to the whole reincarnation thing.
We can rinse and repeat the formula for cows, sheep, pigs, fish and whatever other creature we’ve dared shove in our hungry mouths.
And before I get attacked by vegans, let’s for the sake of this exercise assume lettuce is a living thing. You’ll all be coming back for years as a bean plant or potato which may be peaceful but really no less happy than a pig in the proverbial.
So then I wondered if it might be possible to negotiate with St Peter. Maybe the number of reincarnations is a given. If you’ve consumed a deep-fried bird, there’s really no reneging on that deal.
However, I’d much prefer to be a free-range chicken than I would a cage chicken spitting out eggs into a trough which reminds me of a cross between a South American prison and a Chinese toilet.
Sure, the lifespan of a free range chicken might be longer than that of a cage chicken, therefore prolonging the reincarnation process. My logic there is that chickens too enjoy talking to their mates, albeit in chicken-speak and perhaps more trivial topics. Regardless, they’re enjoying themselves.
Maybe I could have a go at being a show chicken which is all fluffed up and pampered before being perched on a platform for public viewing, or a farm chicken whose sole responsibility in life is to provide the humans with eggs for breakfast, or a wild chicken. Is there really such a thing anymore?
I’m not looking to start a new faith here, however, if this really was to be my fate I’m really not that bothered. Because life is all about the devil you know, dealing with what trials and tribulations it delivers.
If I was a chicken, there would be ups and downs. Along with my fellow chickens, we’d roll with the punches dealt to us by the circle of life, happy times and sad.
That said, I quite like being a human. So I hope my theory is wrong. In the meantime, I’ll deal with whatever life dishes up – usually with a smile on my face.
