|The Madame, trying to lay an egg ...|
It was bound to happen, really. With all the stray cats running around my neighborhood because shitty fucking pet owners can't fix their fucking animals, I'm surprised it didn't happen sooner. Yes, one of my birds got taken this AM. Drug into the bushes by a faggotcat.
I heard them squawking around 6:30 this morning, which is a bit early but I just figured it was due to the mornings getting lighter. It wasn't the type of sounds you'd expect an animal to make if it was in danger, more like just general "Ok I'm up now" noises. Though they did sound closer to my room than before ...
Finally I look out the window and see Butterworth just walking around on the grass, with a shitty fucking stray cat right next to it! I run outside in my bare feets and my boxers - the cat rips out of there and Butterworth is just chilling out, looking at me as if this happend every day for her. I pick her up and take her to the coop, and then I saw the Trail of Feathers ...
Somehow the coop door had been opened - unlatched and opened - and starting from the front door there was a good 3 foot trail of large feathers, probably wing or tail, then a little break, then another trail of smaller feathers leading to the bushes. Oh shit ...
A quick examination shows me two chicken feet lying in the dead leaves, obscured by branches and matted feathers. Fuck.
Anyway, I buried her by our Japanese Maple tree, and put a clay Fox statue our friends left as a sort of grave marker for her. Even though she was just a chicken, I had her for about a year, and she was my pet. I paused to say a few words, but the only thing I could do was tell her I was sorry over and over.
I don't handle death well. After my Mom died suddenly, not a day goes by that I don't think of my own mortality and when my ride will end. When things around me die it's even worse. I know it's only a chicken, and that things die and blah blah blah, but she was our chicken. I held that bird every day it was a chick. When I'd go buy her worms I was exited to get home and feed them to her. It's sad to have to bury a pet that you brought up like that. Especially one that got it's back ripped out by a fucking faggotcat.
Even though Lucretia was the loudest of the two birds, and the one that laid the smallest eggs, she was part of the team, and I feel bad for Butterworth now, as she's the only one left. I'm the first to say that we, as humans, anthropomorphizes animals too much, but I have always been a believer in having two of the same animal so they have a companion. And I can't help but feel that even a chicken can realize when they are the only one left.
I'm fucking sad. And I hate that. I hate being sad about a bird - it's a bird, a chicken! Fuck, man, get a hold of yourself! But in reality, she had more personality than that. She was a pet of the house, and I will miss her shitty squawks and small eggs. Her stupid darting head and her knocking over their water feeder because she liked to eat wet dirt. She was an idiot, but she was my idiot.
I'm sorry, Lucretia. I'm really very sorry.