And Then There Was One (or Dead Chickens Aren't Much Fun)

Through the early morning mist and my sleep shrouded eyes the scene of devastation was apparent. Chickens strewn about the yard, unmoving feet and wings in disarray. An impossible state for any living chicken. Still in my skivvies I rushed into the yard blinking furiously to clear the sleep from my eyes.

The chickens had been living outdoors in the cage for almost two weeks under the roof of the incomplete chicken tractor. There hadn't been any problems. The chickens had greeted me with unbounded eagerness to be let out to begin the chicken busy work that chickens do. Rushing to the garden and climbing the unturned portions of the compost pile to begin their endless scratch, scratch, peck, peck dance.

The moisture in the air was close, almost fog. It would probably rain soon. I cursorily surveyed the carnage. One. Two. Three. Dead. I approached the cage hoping it still contained the remaining five. I searched my memory, did I leave the cage unlatched last night? The cage sat haphazardly askew, wedged between the two by fours that formed the tractor's floor. Empty. The heavy cardboard wired to two sides, providing wind protection, shredded, pieces scattered about. Where were the others?

As I began to survey the edges of the yard a black shape came charging towards me from the bushes about 75 feet away. One of the Wyandottes trailing frightened chicken chirps paused about ten feet away and began excitedly calling for the rest of the flock. Expectantly I shifted my vision to the tree line hoping to see them emerge running full tilt velociraptor style towards us. Heather called from the kitchen door, "I think I see something in the street."

Four. It was lying on the asphalt at the edge of the street wings splayed out head apparently chewed. I looked both ways down the street half expecting to see more bodies. I grasped the dead one by a cold foot and carried it to the back, the Wyandotte trailed me still calling for the flock. I began searching the periphery of the yard, calling every once and again. The Wyandotte seemed to have given up and was just following me now.

Five. I was weeding the garden and checking for sprouting seeds. It was lying just beyond the edge, I almost stepped on it. It was sometime after noon. The Wyandotte -- now named Martha after the first First Lady -- seemed to view me as the only remaining member of her flock. She panics when I am not in view and if she can't find me hides in the bushes that I saw her emerge from that morning. I wonder if it is possible for a chicken to die of loneliness. The two missing chickens have not appeared so I may have an opportunity to find out.

[with apologies to Ogden Edsel]