They were my babies . . . sweet little chickens I had tenderly cared for since my birthday, diligent that they had the cleanest cage, perfectly set heating lamp and clearest water to drink. We lost one in those first few days, but 13 thrived, pecking at our feet in the house and eventually growing big enough to make the move to their super cute coop a few weeks ago.
Yesterday evening however, disaster struck. Rounding the corner into the backyard, I immediately knew something was wrong. There was no chirping coming from the chicken run, and the yard felt eerily still. Usually Tilly, our dog, is bouncing through the grass, eager to greet me and walk with me to the chicken pen to toss out more feed. But not this time. Instead, as I walked up to the pen, she poked her head out of their coop, tail wagging and gave me a little bark. Somehow she had made it through the chicken wire and inside . . . and the worst had happened.
Taco was laying there on the ground, his sweet little head looking towards me but unable to move. Of course, I'm a gigantic pansy about these things and began to cry. Scooping up my poor sweet little duck in one arm, I grabbed the scruff of Tilly's neck like a puppy with the other hand, tossing her into the shed and slamming the door, all the while calling her every name under the sun. The chicken pen seemed to be littered with casualties and all I could do was manage to call my papa.
Sobbing I asked him to come help me. There are only so many dead chickens a girl can handle on her own, and a few were just barely alive, needing to be finished off. It was too much.
Eventually we got the dead ones picked up and began the search for the missing black chickens. That's another thing about my chickens. I know to some people they are just farm animals, but they really do have little personalities if you pay attention. Since they were chicks, the 6 yellow ones were super friendly, always trying to pop through their cage and follow me around the house. They would hop into my hand and were a little mischeivious, tipping their water over and playing in the puddles. The black chickens on the other hand, were a little rouge. They'd bunch up to themselves and tended to sleep separate from the yellow ones. They only liked me when I had food and every night I have to pick them up and scoot them into the coop because they try to sleep outside in the grass.
So when Tilly decided to play tag with the chickens, I can only imagine the yellow ones played along, because she got all but two. Luckily, all but one of the black chickens made it out alive, 4 going through the back fence and hanging out in the neighbors lot, safe and sound. The 5th black chicken was still loose in the pen, hiding in the grass and for the first time in her life, she ran to me, letting me scoop her up, out of Tilly's reach.
Once my Papa arrived, he gathered up the survivors and secured their pen better than I had it before. He took care of the dead ones and almost dead ones, and I sat inside with my grandmother, talking about how sweet the chickens were and eventually reminiscing about Cheerios my old pet goose, and how hard it had been when she died a few years ago too.
Last night I kept Taco in a laundry basket, giving him water and bread crumbs trying to keep him alive. Later I held him while we watched TV and he nuzzled his sweet little head under my chin trying to stay warm. But with missing feathers from being chewed on and suffering from a limp leg, I wasn't sure if he'd make it through the night. Around 5 I woke up to check on him, and he had died. This morning my best friend came over and we buried him in the flower bed.
So now no more Taco the duck and half our chicken flock is gone. It's a sad day around our funny farm. As for Tilly, she stayed in the shed until dark, on the porch until midnight and had to sleep in the laundry room instead of the bed. She's going to be in the dog house for a while with me.
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