A little over three years ago I penned about my decision to raise chickens, the joy I shared with granddaughters as they each selected their chicks, the excitement we all felt, the responsibility for caring for God’s creatures, and how frail living things can be. We mourned the loss of two babies before they were even two weeks old. The kids named all the babies: Petunia, Pearl, Buttercup, Charcoal, Creamsicle, Clutch, and even held funerals for the ones who didn’t survive (Petunia and the First Pearl). I stayed up all night once to nurse Creamsicle to health, feeding her electrolytes and eggs with a medicine dropper every two hours.
Then later my husband built a wonderful and very safe habitat complete with a coop and nesting boxes, all butted up against the back of his garage Mahal; the chicks grew into pullets and out of their brooder and graduated to their new digs. Wanting more than five hens we adopted a couple of teenagers (Honeycomb and Penny, more affectionately known as Lion Tamarind) from a local teen and introduced them to their new family. We fussed over what made the best coop flooring and how to keep them all safe, bought a treadle feeder, made a watering station, and waited for that first egg. That summer Sophie discovered that first egg and we were ecstatic; by fall all seven hens were experienced layers, blessing us with multicolored pastel eggs unique to their particular breed.
All four granddaughters adored those chickens and spent hours digging up clover, grubs, pillbugs, and worms for the daily chicken buffet. I bought chicken harnesses and leashes (Amazon of course) and walking the chickens became a highlight of every visit. We tracked egg laying by assigning Sharpie colors to each chicken, marking the calendar each day; some days we collected eggs from each one, and even the kids became experts at identifying which egg came from what chicken. I taught the girls the nuances of chicken behavior: broody hens were quickly subjected to a cold bath and isolation, and when the kids were alarmed at the hens burying themselves in the dirt, I taught them about “dust baths.” When kids were visiting, they were my biggest helpers, and soon earned the title of “chicken whisperer in training” complete with t-shirts making them part of Nana’s Brood. Even Mandy got into the fray, helping by cleaning the coop while I was recuperating from knee surgery. 
Phone calls, letters, and video chats always included news about chickens: who was laying the most eggs, was Buttercup broody again, and was I giving them treats? Charcoal was renamed Katie after my pet sitter who had to rescue the poor thing from being trapped in the feeder. Birthday cards were embellished with drawings of chickens and funny rhymes were made (“have an eggcellent day”).
Chickens became part of my daily life and a source of joy.
Until that night, the night Alex came in after walking the dogs, saying “I have some bad news,” walking me down to the coop at 11 pm. The run was ripped open (hardware mesh) and feathers were everywhere, the coop door had been ripped off, and I could only count six chickens—five alive and poor Li Li dead on the ground. Pearl was nowhere to be found. A black bear was the culprit. Alex stayed up late to repair the habitat, but less than ten days later the coop was eerily silent Sunday morning…a quick inspection revealed the bear had returned, and this time he took four of the remaining five; only Clutch was left.
As heartbroken as I was (and still am) over the loss I am infinitely more saddened for the granddaughters, to whom I had to break that dreadful news not once, but twice. They were sad and tears were shed, and we each tried to comfort the other. We celebrated the survival of Clutch and talked about whether I’d continue to have chickens. I’m torn. I love having these crazy birds, but I cherish that special bond with Lydia, Molly, Isabella, and Sophie. Alex says he’ll build a better run and coop; we’re even contemplating an electric fence to deter Mr Bear. Crazy, I know. And no, they’re not my idols nor do I assign human qualities to them. I do believe, though, that our Creator put all creatures here for our enjoyment and entrusts us to steward them; caring for them has taught me things about myself and yes, has made my life more complete.
Yes, life is frail, but that only makes us cherish living even more. Oh the memories that we made!
No comments:
Post a Comment