Pearlie picked a good day to die -

Goldilocks hatched five chicks, for one thing.

Pearlie on her favorite perch

I thought my heart would break when my white peahen Pearl died yesterday morning. I still can’t believe she’s gone.

My friend David gave me a pair of white peafowl five years ago. We’d been raising Indian blues for over thirty years and I was intrigued with the beautiful solid white ones. I had to keep them separated, since the blues picked on the newcomers. So it was a little rough right from the start.

Pearl’s handsome dad in all his glory

Then, a year later, Pearl’s mom died, I’m not sure why, but she left two eggs, which I placed under a broody chicken. A few weeks later, both eggs hatched, but Pearl’s sibling developed wry neck, a condition usually caused by genetics or injury. It was unable to hold its head up and died pretty quickly. I now know it may have been possible to treat it, but it was one of those “live and learn” things, and I try not to obsess over my mistakes.

Pearl’s dad got sick and died a year later. Poor Pearlie was off to a tragic start.

She grew up with chickens, and later had a companion named George.

Consequently, I lavished attention on the beautiful girl. She knew her name, and knew that when I called it, she was in for a treat. Chopped fruit, seeds, scraps of bread dipped in egg. Lately I’d been feeding her scrambled egg, yogurt, broccoli and oyster shell because she seemed to be having difficulty laying eggs.

That worked well for a while, but last week she became “egg bound” - a condition with which I was familiar as it has happened with a few chickens over the years. Her wings were droopy, she was lethargic, and she appeared to be straining.

Bathing a chicken in warm epsom salts in a laundry tub is daunting even with chickens, but especially challenging with a full grown peahen. I followed the bath with crushed Tums in yogurt and sat with her most of the day. She passed the egg, and seemed perfectly normal afterward, and all of last week.

Yesterday morning, my husband greeted me with “Pearl is panting, and it’s not hot.” She was still roosting, but was breathing heavily. I helped her down, went to the house, and returned with crushed Tums in yogurt, but she was not interested. David told me he’d recently treated a hen by shooting the mixture down her throat, but that’s risky. I also didn’t want to stress her further by subjecting her to a bath. I thought if we gave it a little time, she’d lay an egg and be fine.

But she let me pick her up and hold her in my lap as I perched on a milk crate. I stroked her beautiful white feathers and spoke softly to her. In less than half an hour, her neck went limp, and she was gone.

I’m having trouble typing this.

I wrapped her in a towel and placed her inside the screened porch. I had plans for a meeting and lunch, and decided to keep them, hoping it would help ease my frame of mind.

And two things happened.

At the meeting, I spoke with my friend Diana, whose sole survivor chicken, Chiquita, was lonely and in possible need of re-homing where she could have some friends. I agreed to pick her up after lunch.

When I picked her up, Diana’s husband Jason asked if I’d like a buckeye tree, as he had potted up some volunteers, and I accepted. Chiquita rode home on the seat next to me, the little buckeye tree in back.

I busied myself acquainting Chiquita with her new coop mates, Honey Bunny and BG (short for the unfortunate and politically incorrect Blind Guy). I adopted HB (Honey Bunny) last year, when her owner had plans to move to Ireland. She was thought to be quite elderly, and had been living in a heated horse barn with a stuffed animal rooster. I moved her, with the toy, into a pen with BG and a heat lamp over the winter. It wasn’t long before she began laying a blue-green egg every few days. Now it’s nearly every day.

BG, a black silkie rooster, became at least partially blind when he was beaten and bloodied by a younger silkie rooster who, up until that point, seemed to get along fine with others. The fight occurred several years ago, and poor BG had to be confined for his own safety. So he was very happy with a companion, I believe. And now he’ll have two - both “Easter-eggers.”

Chiquita and BG

The second thing that happened was hearing a tiny “cheep” in the barnyard where I was working with Chiquita. My hen Fleur’s coop is nearby, and she was caring for five bantam chicks, hatched six weeks ago, but this chirping sounded much younger.

Next door to Fleur is the coop where Goldilocks has been setting on eggs. I’ll admit to perhaps having too many birds, but you can’t possibly have too many bantams. They don’t take up much room, they have great personality, and they’re terrific layers.

Goldie had successfully hatched five little chicks, no bigger than your thumb.

Goldie and her day old chicks - she wouldn’t let me near them.

As heavy as my heart had been all day, it lifted at the sight of those chicks. Did sweet Pearlie know there would be urgent distractions to ease my grief at her loss? I readied water and chick feed for the new little family and hoped for the best for their future. I won’t be trying my luck at white peafowl again.

Last night, we buried Pearl and planted the gifted buckeye on top of her body. The tree will mark her grave, and she will nourish the tree.

And life goes on at Darwin’s Eden.