Tuesday, Matilda Jane died. She had a rough summer. Her third one in the desert.
She survived a coyote attack three years go, leaving her with only one feather. It took months before she was back to her old self. She had been missing on that day. I called her and she came running out of the vines and sat on my lap, scared, but safe.
Tuesday morning, I found her soaked from the sprinklers. It was as if she had no energy to move out of their way. By the time I got to her she was on her side, nose in the ground.
I brought her inside my office, toweled her and talked to her. As she dried, she became somewhat alert, but still could not stand.
I knew she wouldn’t make it despite the sugar water, and the attention.
And right before she gave up, she sang a deep throated song, like I had never heard her do, and she flew, only a few feet, but she was above the ground, almost as if she had to do it one last time. I started to carry her back to her coop, but on the way, she decided she needed to go.
I will miss my morning coffees with Matilda Jane. She always had the best stories to tell.
Some will say, it’s only a chicken, but Matilda was the best chicken and a good listener.
