My Chicken Story: Silver Linings To Grief

One of the realities of keeping animals is they are, for the most part, relatively short lived. I’ve said good-bye to a succession of hamsters, gerbils, guinea pigs, reptiles, cats and dogs over the last six decades. I’ve lost a number of chickens to predators or disease.

There are lots of folks that view poultry as livestock with the attitude that one day they will become deadstock, only to be replaced by another. “What’s the big fuss? It’s only a chicken.”

So it’s with a sense of appreciation when I come across folks that experience their birds as individuals and as friends worthy of love, respect and acknowledgement. In a world that sometimes feels a bit tumultuous and self-absorbed, it’s a welcome counterpoint to feel uplifted by such stories.

Be forewarned: get out your hankies and be prepared for a few tears.

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Tiffany Cochran

Friday evening, I interrupted one of my girls, Squeakers, laying an egg. I closed the door and went to eat dinner. Thirty minutes later, I found her dead in the nesting box when I went back out to check on her.

My husband, who I lovingly call an android due to his lack of visible emotions, sprang into action. He removed her from the nesting box, got the skid steer, and dug a hole about 5′ deep under a tree nearby the coop so she would be close by. He dragged the bucket along the dirt to indicate where we’d laid her to rest.

Saturday morning, we went to Tractor Supply for a few things and I closed my eyes when we went by the peeper cage. He stopped and said, “Look. There are four chicks left. They’re lonely. We should get them.” I thought about it and told him I didn’t think it was the right time, and started to cry. He told me it would be okay; that he knew I could give them the best life. Against my better judgment, we walked out with the last four black sex link pullets.

I tried to keep my distance. I tried to just do only what was necessary. Food, water, heat, safety in a brooder. I didn’t hold them, didn’t talk to them. Only touched them to move them from the box to their new temporary home. But one had dried poop on their vent, and as we all know, part of keeping them safe is keeping them clean. I got out the warm water, some paper towels, and a warm towel to dry her off. I soaked her bottom, and once I got her clean, she pooped a lot and seemed to feel better.

Later that night, I was sitting in the recliner next to the brooder, and she came out from under the heat plate and started raising hell. I checked to make sure they had food, water, and that the plate was warm enough. The other three had fallen asleep and looked comfortable, but she was just looking up at me, crying.

I did what I swore I wasn’t going to do and I picked her up. I talked to her. She fell asleep in my cupped hands against my chest while I watched TV. When I tucked her back under the heat plate, she ran out again, looked up at me, and started fussing again. So I picked her back up, and checked her over. Her vent was clear, there was plenty of food and water, and the temperature under the heat plate was sufficient. She just wanted to be held. So I did. I held her, and rubbed her little head on my chin. As I was studying her features to be able to tell her apart from the rest, I realized she has a similar mark under the same eye as the hen I just lost and I started crying. Logically I know it’s a coincidence but grief is weird and it healed my heart just a little to humor the thought that maybe I’ve been given just a bit more time with my Squeaky girl.

I’ve decided to name her Pippy. Short for Pip Squeak. A little Squeaker. I didn’t realize when I bought them that black sex links come from Barred Rock hens. My Squeakers, like the rest of my older hens, was a Barred Rock. I know she won’t look anything like her, and that’s okay. I guess it really was meant to be.

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Patricia Avis Micaletti

We cremated Piper and on the 4th of July sent her ashes off in a balloon. Attached to the balloon was a note and little light inside it with another balloon on top to help lift the others. We wanted Piper to be able to fly one last time. As my husband said, “Nothing less would do for our favorite birb”.

I wanted to share this story because I received a very sweet email from the woman who found the balloons and read our little letter. I wanted to show how some people are still very kind and that Piper’s life ended on a good note. Thank you, Laura, for all you did for our little Chickie.

I hope her story can spread some positivity and love, just like she did.

FYI: I’m sure Patricia had some feedback about the impact of released balloons on wildlife. She acknowledged that and will find another way to commemorate her birds in future.

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Thanks to Patricia and Tiffany for sharing their stories and photos, used with permission.

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