On Monday we lost Lucy. As I mentioned in my last post about her, she was acting a bit off. She started to lose interest in eating, so I had brought her inside to keep a better eye on her and make sure she got food and water. She seemed to be getting better, was more alert, and was starting to show an interest in her food again. Then just as quickly as she showed improvement, she went down again, had a seizure, and died. When she started seizing I put my hand on her wing, then she relaxed and was gone. I’d like to think it brought her some comfort during her last moments.
At this point I considered her ours. Had her old owners come back and decided they wanted her after all, they would have had to fight me for her. She may have just been a chicken, but she was my chicken and I’ll miss her daily loud-mouthed bwacking. She always had something to comment on. “It’s colder today.” “This food is different.” “Is that compost for me? No? Why not?” “I don’t like carrot peelings. Bring me celery leaves.”
She was her own bird, content to do her own thing, although I think she secretly appreciated the Barnevelder’s company. She liked people, because people meant food and food was her favourite thing. She drove me insane with her habit of scooping the food from her dish out onto the ground, taking a few bites, then scratching the rest into the dirt.
She chased tiny birds, and rolling apples, like an overweight velociraptor. Big, stompy feet pumping furiously to catch her target while her fluffy butt wiggled from side to side.
Run free, Lucy. I’m glad I was able to know you, even if it was just for a little while.