Pools of feathers. When a chicken dies in free range, often there is just a pool of feathers on the ground. Fluffy, delicate feathers with the white downy edges vibrating in the breeze. It is silent, too. No homely cluck or eager waddle through the undergrowth of fat-rumped birds coming up to meet you. It is pretty devastating to lose your friends to just a quiet nothingness.
On Thursday, one chicken was missing. Then on Saturday we lost another, so we were down to four birds, scratching nervously and looking around with their eight collective eyes for danger. Then on Monday the last four girls disappeared leaving nothing but swirling pools of downy feathers behind. I ran through the bush, ducking through the trees, and nothing but teasing trails of feathers. And of course silence.
As an active alcoholic, this would be an ideal trigger for me to withdraw and nurture an elaborate getting-even scheme against all the imagined perpetrators. As a sober, calm alcoholic, I narrowed it down to two suspects, and by dinnertime we were sitting at the kitchen table of one of them, talking muzzles, new fences and apologies.
Now those amongst you who don't have chickens can be forgiven for underestimating the gravity of the situation. Chickens aren't just birds - they are diligent weed controllers, gregarious garden mates, and generous suppliers of brilliant yellow yolked eggs. It is hard to imagine how much a part of my lifestyle chickens have become, and how much a part of my relaxation and release being in the garden with the birds is. So, they are not just birds and although you can replace them, you don't quickly forget the girls and their habits.
It was agreed the dog had been less judiciously supervised than was usual, and that it had indeed been wandering through the bush. As had another dog, a border collie, black and white, identical to marlan, called star. So there were in fact two culprits. I spoke with Star's owner and she offered to 'reimburse' me immediately. Great. Money is fine, but more important was for this to not happen again.
By lunchtime I was helping catch another 10 pullets at a chicken farm half an hour from here. Ungainly, ochre-orange teenagers with crumpled feathers and gawky gangly legs - shy and skittish and not familiar with human handling - yet. These were the new team. I was in love again and before long, the yard was warm with the gurgle of contented chickens.
On Thursday, one chicken was missing. Then on Saturday we lost another, so we were down to four birds, scratching nervously and looking around with their eight collective eyes for danger. Then on Monday the last four girls disappeared leaving nothing but swirling pools of downy feathers behind. I ran through the bush, ducking through the trees, and nothing but teasing trails of feathers. And of course silence.
As an active alcoholic, this would be an ideal trigger for me to withdraw and nurture an elaborate getting-even scheme against all the imagined perpetrators. As a sober, calm alcoholic, I narrowed it down to two suspects, and by dinnertime we were sitting at the kitchen table of one of them, talking muzzles, new fences and apologies.
Now those amongst you who don't have chickens can be forgiven for underestimating the gravity of the situation. Chickens aren't just birds - they are diligent weed controllers, gregarious garden mates, and generous suppliers of brilliant yellow yolked eggs. It is hard to imagine how much a part of my lifestyle chickens have become, and how much a part of my relaxation and release being in the garden with the birds is. So, they are not just birds and although you can replace them, you don't quickly forget the girls and their habits.
It was agreed the dog had been less judiciously supervised than was usual, and that it had indeed been wandering through the bush. As had another dog, a border collie, black and white, identical to marlan, called star. So there were in fact two culprits. I spoke with Star's owner and she offered to 'reimburse' me immediately. Great. Money is fine, but more important was for this to not happen again.
By lunchtime I was helping catch another 10 pullets at a chicken farm half an hour from here. Ungainly, ochre-orange teenagers with crumpled feathers and gawky gangly legs - shy and skittish and not familiar with human handling - yet. These were the new team. I was in love again and before long, the yard was warm with the gurgle of contented chickens.
Beautifully written. I have a new appreciation for keeping chickens. You handled yourself with incredible grace.
ReplyDeleteI feel you on this one. There is nothing like our friends the chickens! We started out with four this year, one was a rooster and was given to a farm and....like you said our other one...just feathers and no sign of her. We are enjoying our two girls and will have to wait until winter is over to get a couple more spring chickens.
ReplyDeleteYou paint a beautiful picture with your words. You should write a book. Seriously. It would be a great achievement for you in your newfound free life.
ReplyDeleteUpdate - the two dogs owners and their kids are coming by tomorrow to meet and greet with the chickens so we can all actually see and feel the birds. And share the eggs when they start to lay. Happy endings and some new local friends.
ReplyDeleteUpdate 2 - Had some leftover scraps from an atlantic salmon and put it out for the chickens to eat - when a fox came by and stole one of the birds whilst I was only minutes away first thing in the morning.
ReplyDeleteStill learning...
Oh no, doubly horrible and tragic. We lost our 4 girls a few weeks ago to a fox. Our family is still sad to not have them foraging and trying to get in the back door. Crazy, adorable little things, arent they?
ReplyDelete