Our dear Charlotte has gone to the big chicken coop in the sky.
It was the madness of the Covid lockdowns in the spring of 2020 that brought her to us.
I purchased chicks for my nieces and nephews, hoping the presence of new pets would help the children deal with the pain and isolation caused by remote schooling. What it actually did was distract them for about 10 minutes – leaving me with pet chickens.
For the sake of convenience, Charlotte and her sisters were all named Charlotte: White Charlotte, Brown Charlotte, Speckled Charlotte and The Other Charlotte.
It was last Sunday morning when I found her cold, stiff body lying peacefully on the floor of the coop. My years of chicken death forensics training on the farm led me to observe that she’d died of natural causes. Her death was not caused by a dog, a fox, a weasel, a hawk, a coyote or excessive heat.
I placed her body in a Walmart sack – two actually, because Charlotte was special.
She’d spent most of her life under the apple trees in the backyard, occasionally escaping her enclosure to poop on the front step, or perhaps to peck a ripe tomato or dig up the neighbor’s raised garden beds.
The grand girls, ages four and seven, had fallen in love with Charlotte. So, her last days were filled with new experiences.
She had her first ride in a Tonka truck. She had her first bath. She was carried to the top of the rock wall in the new memorial park behind our house.
(She was denied her first trip down the Slip N Slide when Grandma said, “I don’t think chickens like to Slip N Slide.”)
It feels empty around here with just three hens digging up mulch and flinging it onto the sidewalk, but I know life will go on. It always does.
Rest in peace, dear Charlotte. Thanks for the memories.
And the eggs.