The Real-Life Tragedy and Joy of Chicken Keeping


| 11/8/2016 12:00:00 AM


I’ve spent most of my time to this point talking about medicinal plants, but now seems a reasonable point to talk a bit about my chickens—well, my chicken, singular, whom I’ve dubbed “The Lone Chicken” as of late.

I started out with five chickens—four hens and a rooster. I now have one. Now, I won’t give you any gory details, but the first chicken I lost was, of course, my favorite. She was named Diana, and she would follow me around the yard, clucking and cooing, and was always the first to walk up to me when I threw treats on the ground. There’s not good way to say this: she was eaten. By something. Who knows what.

chicken 

The second to go was Elizabeth, the half-blind chicken who went slowly into that sweet night until, finally, she went.

And the rooster, of course. Ah, the rooster. He was a beautiful rooster, and a good rooster, who protected his decreasing flock faithfully. However, he kept jumping on me, punishing me with his bony, sharp spurs, despite the fact that I was the one feeding him! The nerve. And, though I didn’t blame him for this, he crowed. A lot. All the time. It was stressful.



He went into the stew pot.



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