The birds — particularly the egg-laying chickens — have been a staple on my little farm since 2010. In fact, the farm started with six hens. Hens can make you think you can do more. Farmers call them a “gateway” animal in the same way marijuana can be a gateway to harder drugs.
The first class of Araucanas, six of them in a cute little cottage-like coop, met a tragic end at the hand of a Black Bear, invisible to them in the night. Four of them were torn to shreds in the dark of mid-October whilst they slept on their steeple top roost, leaving the remaining two hens to lord over the next class with a well-earned superiority. Thus began this unintentional tradition. Birds would live out their lives here, until a predator did us part. Black Bears, raccoons, a hawk. Mortality amplified.
A friend recently recommended a stack of books to me, Being Mortal by Atul Gawande among them. I downloaded it on my Audible right away (so I wouldn’t forget) and plan to listen to it and her other recommendations while I drive or weed or collect eggs or muck stalls. She's the kind of friend who I trust to suggest a book that I will want to read, even if not immediately. And by not immediately I mean, well, this book. It’s the kind of book you need to be ready for, I think.
The book’s description compares the medical profession’s penchant for not only treating illnesses, but also for managing death in a way that Gawande, a surgeon, believes should be handled differently: in a way that is rich and dignified, even in the last weeks and days. Stick with me here. This is not a book recommendation, not directly. Although you might want to add it to your list too.
My current hens are made up of three different classes of chickens. When I say “classes” it’s like in school. Freshmen, sophomores, etc. When one class of chickens dwindles, I bring on a new class of six hens. I always try to have six if I can. It’s the magic number for my farm.
As of a week ago, I had four black and white Wyanadotts that I raised from six chicks my friend and neighbor Carl brought me in the first summer of the pandemic. He picked them up at the Tractor Supply near us as much to cheer me up as to amuse himself. One died in a day. Failure to thrive. Another made it a while and was picked off by a hawk unsuspectingly one afternoon, spurring me (and me to enlist Carl’s help) to build an outdoor coop the birds could easily skitter into if danger swooped in.
The other three (making a total of seven hens) — all varying degrees of a reddish brown — are from two classes of Rhode Island Reds. One, aptly named Lucky, lived through several bear attacks and is the only hen connected to the second class of hens, the ones who arrived after the first bear attack. She’s the most senior hen to be sure.
About a month ago, I noticed one of the red hens looked off. She was active enough, but she would stare. What can I tell you? I knew.
Still I kept an eye on her. She would be inside at odd times. She would lag. She wasn’t going to make it too long. I decided to share her status on Instagram. I like to share farm truths here and there between waddling ducks and donkeys rolling in the sand.
My hen was dying. My followers wanted to know why. What was wrong with her. “Oh, she looks ok.” they would add when I shared another picture. She was indeed ok. But that did not change what was happening.
I made sure she had food without having to compete with the other hens. She slept outside the coop. Sometimes with the donkeys in a safe sandy corner. Sometimes near the goats’ stall entrance. Other times she tucked herself in behind the big black water trough.
She was safe. I offered her a personal cup of water with yellow electrolyte powder and naturopathic antibiotics from oregano oil. She accepted, dipping her beak in and tipping her head back again and again until she was sated. Being hydrated would make her feel better, I thought. Not survival better. But end of life better.
On a farm, you are close to real life and to death in a way that you are not anywhere else in modern society. If your dog is ill and near the end of life, your veterinarian will put her, and you, out of this misery. Maybe that is humane. As hard as it is, it is probably easier than letting life take its course. Or is it?
A good friend of mine skipped euthanizing her dog and let her live out her life at home. Like my chicken she chose to sleep outside in her last days. And she died there, peacefully in her own time.
For years I have been ready for my overly senior goat, Mama, to run out her own clock. It is strange to prepare for that. It is a daily consideration. A seasonal one. It can be an emotional rollercoaster on a little farm. I walk up to the barn each morning. Where’s mama? Asleep still? Deep in the pasture? Alive? Mama is still kicking, heartier than she should be for her 16 years. (Here’s a short 5-minute podcast on the subject. It’s one of my favorites.)
Yes, my chicken died. I was ready. I had supported her good life since the day she arrived at the farm. Food, shelter, freedom to come and go, companionship. She made her own end of life decisions. And when it ended, I was ready to place her beautiful feathered body in the gentlest soft green fern grove where she would be at peace. Close to her home.
But I didn’t. I didn’t get the chance. The ferns were my plan. Not hers. She had another idea in mind. So, one night, instead of sleeping under the stars behind the donkey’s water trough, she walked off. And died. On her own terms. Fully loved. Wholly appreciated. Respected. Free. To the end.
xo, fg