The Ultimate Responsibility

Oh dear, number three chicken, who happens to be called Charity, is clearly unwell. For ten days she has refused food, stopped laying and is clearly going down hill. Now lying with her eyes closed unless disturbed I reach the unhappy conclusion that a quiet death is now the humane option.
I ring several farmer type men to request help in the immediate despatch of Charity, who has suffered long enough.
No one is available at this moment in time to do the dreaded deed. I stand looking at her in despair.
There is no escaping the terrible responsibility. I summon my co-executioner Poppy, gently we catch Charity, carry her out of sight and hearing of the other chickens and carry out the dreadful task.
The scientist in Pops emerges the minute life is extinguished.
"I must just open her up and discover what was wrong". My trusty dissecting kit, unused for three years is brought into action and sweet Charity's insides are scrutinised.
After approximately ten seconds of observation Poppy and I simultaneously decide that it is just possible she is a biohazard and hastily double wrap her in polythene and ring the vet.
We then embark on pretty thorough sterilisation programme of everything in the vicinity. The utility room has never been so clean.
Next day we receive the reassuring news that the ghastly sight inside her was caused by Avian T.B. which is not transmissable to people and we relax. She probably caught it from wild pigeons or a Magpie.
I am now monitoring Faith and Hope extremely thoroughly every morning.
So far, thankfully, they appear to be in rude health.