Patriot. My favorite chicken I ever had. Her feathers had the appearance of cobalt, with an edge of sunbaked wheat color. Her fluffy muffs (cheeks) and beautiful amber eyes were enough to convince anyone that she was a lovely creature. In the past, she had withstood 2 dog attacks, regenerated herself mentally out of shock, and hid from a hawk flying by one day. But the next attack was something that nobody could prevent nor predict. Our rooster, Fancy, had a history of getting on top of other chickens and pecking at their eyes. He would be incredibly vicious towards the little ones. We knew it would only be a little amount of time before he drew blood. When a chicken sees blood, they go crazy (Chickens have a sort of bloodlust). One day, I was at school, doing some crappy standardized test that was super important, or something. After the test, I went to lunch, and I was called to the office. I NEVER get taken out without knowing earlier that day where I'm going. So instantly I knew something was up. I saw my dad out next to the office, and he wasn't happy, nor was he angry. This made me even more puzzled, knowing that my dad isn't typically... "sad". I checked out of my school office, and went through the doors out of the school. I immediately asked "Which chicken died..?" knowing that my dogs were in perfect shape. The response made me stop, shivering in the warm weather. "It would have to be pretty big if we're pulling you out of school on a test day." Patriot. The chicken I cared about most. If one of our chickens died, it wouldn't be an enormous deal. Sure, it would be bad, but it could wait until I got out of school. The whole ride home, I was unresponsive to everything, except for when I asked: "how did she perish?". Their response was vague, with them not knowing an answer to the question. When I got home, I walked to our small chicken graveyard, and sure enough, I saw a large polished rock on the top. "She deserves more than this." I thought. So I got a glove and tore a prickly pear off of the cactus 5 feet away, and placed it on the side. I went over to my coops, and stared at my rooster. "It was you." I knew it was him. The mere chance it was a hawk, I still think he had something to do with her fate. Later that month, we locked him outside the coop, and kept the other 4 hens safe in the coop. A few days later, we gave him to a coop that needed a rooster, and we never heard from him again after 2 months. After those 2 months, we let those chickens out, under ludicrously close watch. A few months later, we got 4 chicks and 4 hens. One of the chicks was constantly coughing, I noticed. She was ill. She never ate or drank. We put her in a separate box so she wouldn't get bullied or get the others "sick". (we don't know if she was sick) She did not survive the night. What made it worse was her name. Patriot Jr. History really does repeat itself, in the sickest ways possible.
Need more chicken tales? Go to Instagram, and find @in_the_coop_chickens for nearly bi-weekly updates!
Need more chicken tales? Go to Instagram, and find @in_the_coop_chickens for nearly bi-weekly updates!