Several weekends ago, I spent my Saturday pulling all our tomatoes out and burying them in a giant pile. Last weekend, I killed, plucked and eviscerated our twenty remaining meat chickens. Talk about grisly work. For some reason, ripping the tomato plants out was more difficult a chore, psychologically, than butchering. I certainly had more in common with the animal than the plant, so this emotion surprised me. The only explanation I have for my reaction is that I failed the diseased tomatoes and instead of watching them continue to blacken and spread late blight to my neighbors, I felt unwillingly compelled to destroy them thus ending our tomato season. On the other hand the chickens were healthy, thriving and happy, but their end means our freezer will feed us for another year.