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.
Sunday, September 16, 2007
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.
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