Rosie
A newly-adopted, disheveled Rosie
We adopted the Icelandics on July 25, 2018: Toey (our best broody hen, the one we rehomed last summer because the other hens were being so horrid); Collette (disappeared via bobcat?); Billie (up and died out of the blue); Copper (still kicking and flapping down toward the bottom of the pecking order); Flopsie; and Rosie. We brought them home in a dog cage from the breeder who didn’t want them. They were imperfect. And they were certainly too popular with the roosters given the hens disheveled appearance.
Oddly, as they filled out their feathers and settled into life up here, Flopsie began to crow and grew a rather alarming spur on her leg (what any male rooster would be proud of). And on we went.
A few days ago, on a Saturday morning in the midst of a storm, I went out to tidy the chicken coop. I noted that Rosie was not well. She huddled, hardly lifted her head, and her wings were drooped. I looked her over as best I could. No blood. No anything around her behind. No idea. The other hens checked in on her every few minutes and then continued to scratch and groan about the weather. (Too insulting for it to be dropping cold, wet, white stuff on the ground after such a beautiful day just the day before.)
I checked in a few times—no change—and when I put them to bed, I tucked Rosie into her favorite nesting box. She hardly noticed. The next morning, the storm had passed, leaving a blanket of iced-over snow. As the sun rose, everything—the bushes, the trees, the structures, the swales and ponds—glistened.
But not Rosie.
We have stewarded 61 hens. Having counted to 17 for the past year, I will count to 16 tonight. They are sturdy creatures, but delicate. I do love them and yet find that, having lost 44 chickens in the span of twelve years, I am more clear-eyed about it, if not less heartbroken.
As I looked about me that morning at the glorious landscape sparkling, I imagined Rosie’s sweet spirit joining in the celebration of life, and how all life asks of us is to accept death and let go. I hope she didn’t suffer too much. And I hope her twin, Flopsie, doesn’t miss her too much.
