Wednesday, September 19, 2012

Requiem for Las Pollitas*


About midnight I heard the sharp, tell-tale squawk of panic from the back yard. I threw on some undies, sandals, my brightest head lamp, and went out to investigate the darkness.

What I found was a scene out of a nightmare. The beam from the light shone carnage from one end of the yard to the other. The heavy mesh and wood framed door to the coop was blocked wide open, and only one -- the black Australorp -- of our six chickens was still inside.



I gulped back my horror and stepped into Dragnet mode -- "Just the facts ma'am." Bundles of feathers, still held together by the flesh torn from the birds indicated moments of truth and struggle, three distinct piles of them. Down blew calmly across the yard, now free from the birds it had once kept warm or cool. Puddles of chicken shit betrayed the last panicked thought to cross a crushed chicken's mind and digestive tract. Not the prettiest of inventories. These are the consequences of not paying attention.

Ugh. But soldier on I said to myself. Emotions are for later. A flutter from the tree drew my light. Another had escaped the bobcat assault. This was one of the Rhode Island Reds. Another, the Plymouth Rock, lay injured near the wall the big cat had jumped over. Normally the noisiest of the brood, she was quiet, passive, drugged by some internal pain killers. I took her back to the coop and placed her on a bed of straw. Likely she would die by morning.

It looked like both Easter-eggers were gone. Likely one of the reds too.

As much as I love bobcats, I was angry at the bedlam left behind in the middle of the night. I knew I would not sleep and was indignant at myself and the other keepers of the flock for not protecting our brood. They were, pardon the species switch, sitting ducks. Helpless. Sleeping soundly. Dreaming chicken dreams in the safety of the heavily fortified coop.

Definitely operator error here.

Impotent rage rushed through my veins. I had failed to keep my little flock safe from predators doing what they do.

So, farewell little Easter-egger, Plymouth Rocker, Raging Red. You were fine companions and good layers. I bless you on your journey and hope that your chicken memories of us caretakers are fond. Forgive us for spacing out our chores, our responsibilities to you, our charges. Help us to remember and to double check your protection in the future.



Help us to grieve and not blame and to learn again that life is delicate, that there are no guarantees, that the best we can do is bless and be kind to those who share these sacred moments.



* Spanish for "little chickens"

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