Sometimes on Sundays, my 78 year-old grandmother would announce that we were having chicken for supper and dispatch one of us children to the coop to fetch the slowest hen or scrawniest rooster; while we were running all about to snatch it up she would busy herself with tightening up the clothesline and when we handed up our prize, she would snatch it from our hands and tie its feet to the line.
Then after checking the big kettle put on to boil and judging it ripe, she would take this great knife kept solely for this sacred rite, grasp the hapless bird about the nape, pull down taut, swipe a mighty swipe and dash across the rocky yard leaving a wavy trail of red-stained ground behind as the chicken danced its final dance.
The rest's a blur of smell and noise, the dog madly barking, me busy retching, my sister running for higher ground; but in the time for the pot to settle, the bird was gutted, the feathers plucked and the coop went back to its former raucous state.
You are a fine storyteller, OP.