It's cold and raining and the garbage trucks are clanking around outside. Betty the pullet died this morning. We didn't do the right things for her. I thought she was illin' yesterday but had to run off to a long long long clinic day with car repair thrown in and Deb was here. She tried to help by isolating her and talking to the chicken person about antibiotics and different food.
We should have brought her into the house and warmed her up and made sure she was eating and drinking. So this morning I tried to do those things but it was too late. She was the moran, the chicken with dark brown eggs (she never laid any, still too young) and pretty black and grey feathers.
Shit. She was the littlest one and the one Lucy picked on. But she was growing and I thought she would be able to hold her own. She's wrapped in a towel and I go in and stroke her pretty feathers.
I let the other chickens out of their coop. They don't mind the rain, in fact they don't seem to notice. I threw them some greens from the garden and they're out there scratching and pecking.
Birds are different from other creatures. They're miniature dinosaurs.