Feathers

She was sad, mad, and unhappy. Her friends and sisters had died. It had taken a week to happen.  The raccoon taking two to four chickens every one to three nights until we were at one.  We had started at 10 that week.  The last chicken proved to me that a chicken is more than a chicken; they are people with strong feelings.

Chicken Sandwich (what my dad called her for she never had an actual name) took the matter into her own hands.  She decided she was to never go near the coup where all her friends died, not even near it.  She decided to sleep in a tree one night.  I was outside one evening and I saw the chicken going near the woods down the grassy hill (away from the coup).  She pecked the ground in search of grub, clovers, and grass for her dinner. Just as the sun was about to go down she flapped her wings and jumped trying to get into the tree.  Oops she missed the pine branch and fluttered to the ground blowing a few feathers onto the green, dewy grass. She tried again making the branch 6 feet tall.  By that time the sky had turned green-blue with some midnight blue surrounding it and the sun had disappeared from view.  The lonely, sad chicken then jumped up one more branch out of vision.  I went over and looked up and she looked down.

“What are you doing pretty girl?”  She answered me blinking her black eyes with a light voice sweetly.  She stood up nervously so I backed up the hill a bit, then she settled back down, sitting on her branch again.   I’m really going to miss you Chicky, I thought, I really wish I wasn’t leaving you.  It’s like a nightmare come true. My eyes watered slightly making mosquitoes come nearer to my face.  Slap!  I slapped a mosquito near my eye; I really don’t need a big, red, blotch on my face! I laughed as the chicken kept talking to me in her low whispery voice.  My dad tried taking pictures of the chicken looking down on us but they didn’t turn out very well.   It made me smile to think of a chicken looking down on me; it’s supposed to be the other way around.  I laughed and smiled the rest of the night knowing this would end soon, very soon.

A couple of days later she came up onto the old peeling, blue porch looking for someone to talk to.  She found me on the porch eating pretzels on our blue and green chairs.  The chicken talked to me and jumped at my hand trying to get my pretzels, so I broke them into chicken bite-size pieces and through them to her.  She pecked them then gulped them down greedily wanting more.   I gave her my last three pretzels then went inside.

At one point she got too lonely outside in the yard and wanted to come inside with us.  She had the most peculiar idea of jumping at the windows to get inside the house and say hi.
“Myah look,” my mom pointed to the window as the chicken was fluttering her wings and flying at the glass.   I laughed with my mom watching her do it over and over trying to get inside with us.
The very next day she did the exact same thing while my parents were working outside in the yard on the garden.  When they came in for lunch they left the door open wide and the chicken just walked in looking around to see if it was safe.  She talked to us in her soft voice and we talked to her.  She looked at us with her head sideways and talked some more.  Eventually we had to shoo her out of the house since she would probably soon go to the bathroom on the floor (thus the reason why I always wear shoes outside is because I might find chicken surprise in the grass).

The summer was soon to end and moving time was coming closer and closer.  My grandparents decided to come and visit.  They both loved the chicken as much as we did.  The time soon came and we had to travel south to go to New York City and drop my grandparents off on the way in Boston to catch their plane.

“Myah can you please fill these two containers with bird feed for Kathy to feed the chicken with?” My mom asked me the night before we were to departure on our road trip.

“Yeah, sure mom,” I answered before running out the door with the containers passing the chicken on her roost my dad had made for her.   I jerked the shed doors open and ran in.  Once I got to the feed bags I started scooping it into the plastic, black containers.  When I was done filling each one I snapped the clear lids on.  As soon as I was completed with the task I brought them back in the house to eat dinner.

I woke up to the sound of people bustling downstairs adding the finishing touches to their bags.  I looked at the clock and saw it was 5:00 am, might as well get ready for the long road trip ahead.  I put on my clothes as quick as possible and rushed downstairs to say good-bye to the chicken and give her hope for the long week ahead.  I opened the door after going through the crowd of my family on the first floor.   When I opened the door there was no chicken where it should be.  There were feathers, only feathers.  They trailed down the blue peeling porch and into the grass.  I stared in disbelief but there were no tears coming until I saw my grandmother come to me. She came to me as I was boiling over in hot, salty tears.

“I know how much you loved her sweetie.”

Later I ran over and gathered some of her fluffy black feathers and stuck them in a plastic bag, then put them in my room.   I put on my coat and we drove away teary eyed, never to see our beloved chicken again.

Contributer Bio: I’ve had many chickens and many losses. I’m 11 years old and now live in New York City full time but get to visit friend’s chickens in Maine.

What kind of Chicken person am I: Rural Community – 25 Chickens or less

This post was submitted by Myah Lunceford.