Never name your chickens.
We broke that cardinal rule last summer, when six pullets for six people made names inevitable.
John's hen, Cassidy black, is hale, hearty, and enters her second month of broodiness.
Piper's hen, Strike, shoots like a waddle-rocket each time we bring out the chicken compost.
But, alas, for the others.
Fare thee well, Sumac Gold, who broke Annika's heart with a mysterious mid-winter death.
Fare thee well, Una, my pure one, whose heart failed the day after I chased the fox off your back.
Fare thee well, Strawberry Blonde Hair, whose death confused Susannah and made her pretend to cry at inappropriate times.
Fare thee well, Miney, and comfort for tender, sobbing Mildred, who tripped over your entrails on a brightly lit morning.
Fare thee well, raccoon, possible suspect, whom we lured with the irresistible smell of bacon.
(John had to release me from the trap before we tried again for the raccoon.)
Hello, possum. I'm pretty sure you tricked us into trapping a raccoon, you dirty rat. GRRRR!!!
And hello, new chicks. Though the girls have named a few of you, I will refrain.
What lovely names for your chickens. What sad deaths.
ReplyDeleteI've never read a better written or more pleasing post about chicken deaths, or anything much else, to be honest. I loved this.
ReplyDeleteChickens TOO?!! Talk about dirty rat!!
ReplyDeleteEvery pic is a treasure - especially that Strawberry Blonde Hair who is a perfect match for Susanna's locks!
Thank you, Sarah. Coming from a fellow Chicken-keeper, that's a real compliment. (Yours are so much healthier, though!)
ReplyDeleteI came back to read this again. And I have to say, with no small amount of misplaced pride, that so far all of my chikens are alive and kicking. I let them sleep in the house, though, which is bad for mess, but good for featherless chikens.
ReplyDeleteStill my favorite all-time post.