cricketmask: (melancholy)
[personal profile] cricketmask
Last night a possum got into our chicken coop and killed one of my favorite chickens. I love all of our little ladies, but Wheatley was one of the sweet ones. Atlas and GLaDOS are both kind of "meh" when it comes to people, and Peabody must've been a purse dog in a previous life because she's totally chill with being picked up and carried around, and Wheatley and Chell are -- were -- the lap chickens. You sit down, they want to perch on you. Usually on your knees, but sometimes on your shoulder. These ladies, they like gettin' their ups.

It's totally our fault, too. Normally, we close up the coop when it gets dark because the ladies put themselves to bed and we just have to make sure everything's locked up. We even remind each other of it all the time. "Are the chickens in?" "Are the ladies closed up?" "Chickens secure?" It's like if one of us forgets, the other person remembers.

But last night, we both forgot. The ramp door was open, and a possum found its way through a hole in the wire roof of the run and got into the coop. And Wheatley, one of our prettiest, friendliest little chickens, our gold lace wyandotte, our lap chicken, paid the price for our forgetfulness.

The other four ladies seem to be okay. Nate caught the possum in the act and it doesn't look like the others have been hurt at all. I just feel so awful about it. Awful, and guilty. I know there are plenty of people who will say that it's stupid to grieve over a chicken -- we eat chickens, after all -- but our chickens aren't food. Our chickens are pets, and they have personalities, and they're so incredibly vulnerable at night. That she's dead is 100% our fault. I feel like I failed her.

I'm so sorry, Wheatley. You were an awesome little bird. I'm going to miss having you perch on my knees.
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October 2013

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