Obituary: The Rest of the Story

I awakened In the middle of the night last night, and for some reason, reached both arms out wide and stretched. My right hand caught a glass of water on the night stand and dumped it on my pillow and mattress. After dealing with the problem, I couldn’t go back to sleep, so at 2:45 I got out of bed and began writing. Around 4:30 I heard, just outside my window--chicken coop location–the sound of something being knocked around. I was writing intensely, paused briefly, and continued writing. From time to time I heard momentary, but unusual sounds from the same area. A little after 5:00, I began to hear what sounded almost like chicken chirps. I knew they were locked up securely, so I kept writing. About 5:30 I got a complete thought down in writing, so, having heard chickens and other sounds, decided I should check to see what was going on. When I opened a curtain and looked out into the lighted backyard, I saw a large raccoon carefully examining, it seemed, every square foot of the yard. Instantly, I knew what he had eaten for his midnight meal on the previous night.

Obituary

Yesterday I buried Celie, the favorite of a daughter and granddaughter–and if I believed in favorites, she might have been mine. I wait until all the chickens have gone to roost before I lock them against predators. Celie was always the last to roost, and she always roosted close to the gate. If she was on the roost when I arrived to shut them in, she would hop down and come over to the gate. A brief time of personal communion. A couple of nights ago, it was well after dark when I went to secure them for the night. I didn’t notice Celie in her usual place, but remembered she sometimes took up a different position. Dark as it was, I assumed all were on the nest, so I locked them in. Next morning when I went to release them, Celie met me at the back door. I didn’t think there was a way she could have gotten out, and examination proved that to be so. She had roosted somewhere outside. And was safe and sound. I felt good. Maybe the varied predators are gone and I can let all of them roost in the trees, wisteria, and honeysuckle vines. By evening I had forgotten Celie’s night out. Again it was late. It was dark. Again I assumed Celie was in, although I didn’t notice her. The next morning, yesterday, she had been disemboweled on one porch, and all the white meat had been consumed on another bloody porch. There was no joy in Mudville when mighty Casey struck out; there was no joy in our home when Celie–Chicken Little–was struck down. She had been the most sprightly, the most curious, friendliest yet most like a wild fowl. The smallest–chicken little. Quirky. At the top of the pecking order, but did not flaunt it like Sally does. For months when we were without a rooster, she crowed like a rooster. She was a Silver-laced Sebright bantam, one of the few true bantam breeds. She arrived here from the Ideal Hatchery when she was two days old. Somewhere I have pictures of her on top of my head. Now she is gone, and life moves on, but I felt like writing this memorial obituary in honor of the joys she brought into our family–and not a few diminutive eggs.

Pullet Eggs

The younger generation recently has begun to lay a few eggs. Brownie, pictured above, laid her first today: bantam eggs are small, pullet eggs are always small, Brownie’s egg was baby-sized, pale tan, and elongated with a pointed, almost ice-cream cone shape. Her papa could be any of two or three roos. From one of these she got her iridescent black/green color. From her white, fluffy Cochin mother, Princess, she got her downright short legs (of course, Lincoln, commenting on leg length, noted that they need only to be long enough to reach the ground). Our gorgeous young rooster, Joe, her stepbrother, reminds me of Ted Baxter–handsome, colorful, good voice, but a little slow in “getting it.” When kitchen scraps are thrown to the chickens, someone else will steal his chosen tidbit before he can pick it up. But it makes no difference to little Brownie whether he has picked it up or not. Her low-down legs are so fast that–several times a day--she will grab food right out of Joe’s beak as she races by. There are plenty of sharp little ladies around who can make a fool out of a big, good-looking male before he has any idea what has happened, leaving him with a Joe, the rooster, blank look on his face. “Hey, what happened?”