On her last night on the planet, I tucked my little miracle chicken Peanut under my arm and took her for one final round of evening chores.
For many years, she enjoyed riding in the pocket of my barn coat, accompanying me as I closed the doors of our various coop doors for the night. I imagined that she wore a smug look on her tiny chicken face, as if to say, “you poor silly birds, you’re spending the night in a drafty barn, and I’m on my way back inside for a tasty snack and a cozy night in comfy quarters.”
Actually, Peanut would never think such a thing, let alone say it out loud. She loved her birdy friends - remember when she invited those who had bullied her in the early years to join her on the screened porch, where she’d found safe and comfortable refuge one winter?
I read recently that chickens are capable of recognizing up to one hundred faces, and that they make friends and grieve their loss. I have no doubt. I felt she’d want to say goodbye. And so on Christmas Eve, two weeks ago tonight, I wrapped her in a soft little blanket and held her close as I made my way around Darwin’s Eden at dusk.
First stop was the small house on stilts just outside the screened porch, home to a small flock of silkies, two young black copper marans, Cocoa and Coala (who refused to join the other chickens in the larger coop months ago), a tiny bantam rooster named Little Dude and his dark companion hen Skizzy. I did a quick head count and we secured their door.
We then walked through the orchard to the first structure my husband Bill and friends built on the property after we built our house, over thirty years ago. It’s a long, narrow barn type building that has housed our many peafowl over the years. In good weather, they might roost in trees or on top of a pen, but in winter they often take to the rafters inside. It’s also home to a motley assortment of ducks. I counted, making sure all were present before shutting the doors against predators.
Next we secured the door to the attached call duck house. I love these small ducks, raised many years ago as decoys for hunters, named for their noisy quacking, sadly calling compatriots to their doom. Now they are bred in various colors and prized for their appearance and eggs.
Tacked on to the rear of the peacock house is the home of our Guinea fowl, with attached flight pen. Guineas are known for voraciously devouring ticks in the warm season, but our local coyote population is known for devouring guineas, so we house them in protected quarters for the winter. They are also the watch-birds of our domain, alerting us to hawks, dogs, coyotes, or human stranger danger with their shrill and deafening cries. We love them anyway.
My sole white peahen Pearlie and her half-white mate George reside with the guineas, for Pearl’s protection; her color makes her a target for predators. Peanut and I shut them all up for the night.
We walk over to the oldest coop in the barnyard - over one hundred years old, in fact. It first belonged to the Riethmiller family, whose Waterloo centennnial farmhouse was later purchased by Bill’s family, and when they sold it, the henhouse was dragged to their nearby new home, and later to ours when my mother-in-law gave up raising chickens.
It houses around twenty hens and a black silkie rooster named Charlie. I refer to it as the ladies old age home because most of the hens residing there quit laying eggs years ago. But since we are a no-kill farm, they live out their lives in spoiled comfort. Heads counted, door shut.
Next stop was Baughn’s Banty House next door to the old coop, so named for the late Mikell Baughn, a Grass Lake school teacher and counselor who became my first and fast friend when I moved to the area. Oddly, I met her at the same place I would meet my husband some ten years later - the Waterloo Farm Museum, where I volunteered for years.
Twenty years ago, the antique coop became cramped and I needed more room for my growing flock of bantam chickens, my favorites. I had my eye on a shed in the Lowe’s parking lot, but couldn’t afford it. Bill, ever the handyman, took measurements and figured he could build it for much less, but I still couldn’t afford it. Mikki came to my rescue, loaning me the money at zero interest. When I saved enough to repay her, she refused it. She loved the banties, too.
When we entered the coop door to count the birds on their perches, Peanut seemed to perk up. She raised her head and opened her eyes. I think she recognized the sounds and smell of her old home. She uttered her sweet, familiar twitter. My heart grew hopeful for a brief moment, but my head knew she was only saying a last goodbye.
My sister Laura goes outdoors at midnight on Christmas Eve, to listen for the animals who are said to speak at that hour, a legend going back to the manger. It’s said that only the pure in spirit can hear them, and my sister qualifies. So did Peanut, but she and I were back inside by then, snuggled up together, and she passed a few hours later.
Although Peanut is no longer with us, I still need to rise each morning to open the doors in all of the coops. Bill helps me now with the water as I do the morning feed. These birds give me reason to get out of bed when, especially these past two weeks, I often don’t feel like it. No matter the weather, or what’s going on in the world or in my life, the birds, dogs and cats depend on us. Peanut’s legacy has been the messages I’ve received of love, appreciation, and encouragement for this way of life.
So tomorrow I’ll start all over again. My coat pocket feels empty and I miss her little voice. But it’s a new day. Who knows what it might bring.
Beautifully written. I miss our Emmie, whom we lost a month ago. I felt nostalgic walking through your evening routine. It’s amazing how much these birds can touch our lives and hearts.