We had our first chicken tragedy on Saturday. I went out to gather eggs and check the chickens, and noticed one wasn't running when I made my "kissing" sounds that make them come running. Without even looking at her, I knew she was dead.
Buckwheat. She was my favorite. She was an Aracauna with black and white feathers. She was beautiful. The kids sometimes called her Roadrunner because if she got out, that girl could run.
I ran up to the house to get Joe. Carter knew something was wrong. He is so attached to these chickens. He nearly beat Joe out the door trying to get there as fast as he could. Carter cried and, as I hugged him, I gave him the "life on a farm is tough" talk. Not that we live on a farm. But we do have a chicken coop, smokehouse, and barn on our property. It was once a little farm.
Joe scooped her up with a shovel and asked me what he should do with her. And, being the practical farm girl that I am, I replied, "Oh, just toss her over the fence into the brush near the railroad tracks." And he did. And now I almost feel guilty that I didn't prepare a proper burial for my favorite chicken.
And so Sawyer keeps asking if Buckwheat is coming back to life. I told him she is in chicken heaven. And then I said, "I bet Aunt Krissy is taking care of her." Which made me laugh. I can so hear Kristen's voice saying, "Thanks, Lera. Thanks for your chicken." With barely a smile on her face.
RIP Buckwheat. You were a good girl. And you laid some pretty eggs. We miss you lots. Even if I didn't cry that you're gone. And tossed your body over the fence. I'm sorry your chicken sisters started to eat you. It's just not fair.
*These photos were taken in the spring when we first moved them to their coop. The first picture is not a picture of the dead Buckwheat. Although Carter took some with his new Christmas camera and emailed them to his best friend.*