We had our first death in the family.
One of the chickens fell victim to chookicide.
What’s worse is The Man was an unknowing accessory to the crime.
For days, every time the poor, bullied creature would flee through the fence into the next-door block, he’d fetch it back and pitch it back into the melee, until today, when he discovered it limp and maggoty in a corner of the block.
The Boy was distraught when told that The Chik (it now has its own title – as spelt by The Girl) would probably die.
The Girl wrote letters in her newly-formed five-year-old script to the couple we bought our three layers and the six chickens off – "Dear Mick & Trish, our chik is sick, can you make it better?"
The Chik barely lasted the afternoon – just enough time to make sure The Kids knew about it, were hopeful for it, and ultimately devastated by its death.
The Girl turned away at the burial, declaring that she couldn’t look.
“After all, it’s my first funeral,” she told her father in tear-stained tones.
The Boy, recovering from his earlier misery in a rush of testosterone declared, spade in hand; “hey Dad, look at all this space – we can dig enough holes to bury all the rest of the chooks when they die”.
The Chik was buried with a letter from The Girl.
Dear Chik, I will miss you. I love you.
The Kids faxed me a picture of the funeral – their little crayoned faces are all frowns reaching much wider than their little round faces as they stand beside The Chik’s corpse.
Then today, while I was home, in the middle of a four-day rain storm, another chicken flew the coop.
It was chased around the muddy backyard, in the pouring rain, by The Dog who is torn between his mixed heritage in situations like this.
The Dingo side of him wants to eat it, the Coolie side of it wants to chase it in circles in the hopes of winning a ribbon.
He compromised by licking its feathers off every time he got near to it.
This one’s going to survive.
It’s wrapped up in my bathroom with the heater on while the rest of us freeze, a towel wrapped around it and little teaset servings of chook pellets and water.
We’re tossing up on whether to call it Wendy, Alice of Vanessa.
The Boy wants to call it Jack.
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