R.I.P. Elsie Serama: Small Rooster, Big Personality

I’ve written several posts in a series about the impacts of losing a member of our flock. Unfortunately there is no shortage of sad endings, some expected and others sudden and inexplicable, that touch us deeply. 

Not everyone can relate to the grief that some feel over the death of a chicken – even other chicken keepers who see their birds as livestock, meaning an animal that has a purpose in serving their owner and it would be a bit unseemly to shed tears over something you could replace for just a few dollars. Clearly, they are not my people, though I respect that not everyone bonds to their birds as they might the family dog or cat.

These stories resonate with my readers and I’m committed to continuing to hold space for them. Grief is something we all must bear as individuals, but that load is lightened when shared with others who understand and empathize with our loss.

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Today our little Elsie LC (Little Chick) passed away.

He was an accidental chicken. He and his brother, Pippy, came from eggs hatched for a daycare. I couldn’t return the to the person who I got the eggs from so they became our house chickens. Elsie LC was given a girl’s name because we couldn’t tell his sex until it crowed. I called him a lot of things over the years: Napoleon, the biggest little chicken in the world. The Notorious Lil C. I called him and his bestie a couple of comedians. They were our two-legged chihuahuas. Now we only have one two-legged chihuahua guarding the house from pesky Amazon delivery drivers.

Elsie was a Serama cross. Seramas, bred in Malaysia to be house pets, are the smallest chicken breed on the world. When he was born he was my baby. He was so attached to me he wouldn’t stay with the other chicks. He would stand there and yell till I came back and carried him around with me. Then he chose Brian and he became Brian’s favourite. He always wanted to be with Brian and he would scream bloody murder until he came back. He watched TV with Brian. Perched on his arm or leg. Brian was the chicken caretaker and the King Cock, according to LC and Pippy. 

Brian built the chickie bedroom in the barn out of an old horse stall. He insulated and drywalled it. It has a heater, thermostats, decorations, wifi and a baby cam so we can see and talk to them. Especially on vacation. Every day, no matter the weather, Brian trudges down the hill path to the barn to get the chickies and bring them up to the house. They’d spend the day with us until it was bedtime.

Elsie went for car rides, to Tim Hortons for cheese, and visited daycare centres. He loved cuddles and he loved cuddling in long two-hour car rides. He wasn’t too fond of bumpy forest service roads when he’d have to surf in the back seat.

He was a very picky eater, didn’t like to eat bugs like a regular chicken and turned up his nose at almost everything: watermelon, blackberries, tomatoes, all kinds of fruits and veggies. The only things he really liked were thawed frozen, not fresh, blueberries and peas. Sometimes tuna, if I dried it off first. Coconut Greek yogurt. And definitely cheese: shredded parmesan, flakes of aged cheddar, mozzarella, my spinach pizza. And of course, chicken treats. Their food and water glass were on the coffee table.

Elsie talked constantly. Until he hit puberty he had a beautiful voice like a canary, then he gained a screechy high crow and a flatter tone to his talking voice. He “putt, putted” everywhere, he couldn’t walk without talking. “Putt, putt, putt”, he said. He had certain words that he said like Morse code plus tones. And very expressive. Elsie knew words. He knew his own name, Pippy’s name, “come on”, “bedtime”, “car ride” and others. always knew what he was saying and feeling.  He even taught Pippy, who used to be quiet to talk. 

When they walked into the house, announcing their arrival with a series of soft coos, they sounded like the sweetest little angels. Then he’d run and attack my feet if I had socks on or he’d attack me if I wore anything but black. He dictated my fashion choices for three years. I must be barefoot with black clothes or else! The only acceptable footwear was Birkenstock sandals. Everything else was obviously a threat that was smothering my feet and needed to be attacked. Meanwhile, my husband Brian could wear anything he wanted. If I wore other colourful clothes with socks and shoes to go out I needed to get changed as fast as I could when I got home! Sometimes stripping down at the front door to avoid the wrath of the biggest little chicken in the world!

He was very high strung. A bird fly past the window? Freak out. Anything unexpected? Freak out. Need some attention? Freak out. Freaking out with his freak out routine was his favourite pastime. Freaking out isn’t crowing, it’s squawking and yelling as loud as he could in random series like the noisiest most horrible jazz you could imagine. When they were babies I taught them to be wary of crows and big birds flying over so he was very good at spotting them and totally freaking out. The neighbourhood won’t miss him.

He had a very good and spoiled life. He took up so much space in our lives everyday, so much space demanded as a 1.5 pound giant. I have arrived. Pat me. Pick me up. Where are you? Get back here. Let me in the car. Don’t wear that. Give me treats. 

We are going to miss our funny little guy tremendously. Thanks for enriching our lives, LC, even if you left us only half way through your life.

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Thanks to Heidi Reeves for sharing her story and photos, used with permission.

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