I haven't posted too terribly much on the BYC forums yet, but when I did, it was usually about my first, and favorite, chicken: Darcy. Since I had quite a few people who were concerned about her, I'm making this thread to inform you all that Darcy has passed away at just six months old.
I'm just going to copy and paste the memorial post I wrote for her on my tumblr earlier.
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It is very difficult to make this post because I don’t feel like making sure everything I type looks pretty and I can barely see because of all the tears and my heart literally hurts.
What I found when I came home from school today is the last thing I ever expected. I went out to the chicken pen to get the eggs for the day, and about 20 feet from the door, I stopped. There was a limp, white mass lying on the ground. As though by miracle or of the hand of God, all of the bantams were trapped in the other half of the pen, and the door had closed and locked itself. Darcy lay alone, in the pouring rain, pouring so hard that I could barely see through it.
I didn’t go in at first. I didn’t believe it was real. I ran back inside and said to my mom, “Darcy… she’s…” And we knew. And I ran back outside, faster than I’d ever run, almost falling a few times, and I ran in the chicken pen and fell to my knees at the sight before me.
She was lying there. Her feathers, mangled and wet. Most of her head was buried in the dirt. All of the red had gone from her comb and wattles - there was only pale skin. Her eyes were partially open, staring out into something I couldn’t see. Her body stone cold and hard. I didn’t mind the mud and dirt and rain, I fell to my knees and fell on top of her and screamed as loud as I could, until I thought my lungs would explode. I screamed and cried and asked God “why?” over and over, until my throat was so raw that I couldn’t scream any longer. And then I whispered to her. I said I’m sorry for being so mean and calling her sassy and rude and vicious. I said I’m sorry that I didn’t spend more time with her. I said I’m sorry that I didn’t take more care to keep her weight off so she didn’t have a heart attack.
And I told her how much I love her. I told her that I love her over and over again. I told her that I don’t regret any of this and I’m glad I rescued her and I’m glad to have known her and that she was my best friend. And I promised her - a promise that I swear I will keep for the rest of my life - that I will never eat chicken again.
I don’t understand anymore how anyone could eat chicken. What if every time a chicken died for food, someone cried over it like I did? What if someone loved it the way I love Darcy? 20-something million chickens are killed for food every day. None of them knew love. No one cried when they died. And we so selfishly eat their carcasses, as though they were nothing, as though they were never living beings with souls who were capable of love.
——-
I met Darcy Taylor on February 16th, 2012. I suspect that she was born that same day, or maybe a day or two earlier at the most. My school’s agriculture class had gotten in some baby chickens that were left over from the elementary school’s agriculture class. Someone told me that the remaining chicks were being given away to any student in the school who wanted one, and I wanted one. I went down there, and at first, I was told that there were no chicks left. The teacher had taken most of them and put them on the grill outside the classroom. Day-old baby chickens grilling. I was disgusted then, but now, thinking about it disgusts me more than ever.
Then, I heard a guy say that one baby chicken was still alive. I went to look at her. Darcy was lying in a wooden box under a heat lamp. She was weak and had a splayed leg, and had not been eating or drinking properly. The guy said he was going to take her home and throw her out to his dogs. I said no. I gave him the only nine dollars I had to my name at the time, and he let me have her.
I named her Darcy Taylor because they are both intersex names, and I had no knowledge of chickens, and I didn’t know what she was. She was the sweetest baby. She followed me around and chirped so sweetly and fell asleep in my hand every chance she got. I fixed her leg and got her to eat and drink, and there were a few times when I lay in the floor and she fell asleep on me, and we would just sleep together. I loved that chicken like my own baby.
She grew quickly. Her yellow baby fuzz was replaced with gorgeous, snow-white feathers. Her eyes turned from brown, lightened to green, and ended up a bright amber. When she was a month old, I got her some baby bantams to be her friends. She became leader of the flock quickly, and a month later, I moved them all outside to a pen that any chicken would call paradise. I went out and sat with the chickens daily. One day, I took The Hunger Games with me and I read them the first chapter. Darcy grew and grew, and she was my favorite chicken and honestly my closest friend. I know I say that the rats are my best friends, but I didn’t save their lives and have them from the day they were born.
Darcy was likely a Cornish Cross; a chicken meant to gain as much weight as possible in order to be killed for food as soon as possible. Many are killed at eight weeks. They have been bred over the years to gain weight, no matter how little you feed them, and so she grew. I tried to exercise her and give her smaller meals, but she gained weight. I estimated her today to be about fifteen pounds.
As Darcy grew, she lost her sweetness, and replaced it with sass. Not mean sass. She just had a lot of personality, and she’s the one who taught me that chickens are more than just “those animals we eat.” They have souls. They’re just like us. She growled and made weird, angry noises. She was the original Angry Bird. She pranced around and chased me around the yard. One time, she pulled Lisa’s bracelet right off of her arm and ran in circles with it.
I found Darcy’s first egg on Saturday the eighteenth. She laid, if I remember correctly, five eggs in her lifetime. They were light brown with little speckles, and so pretty. There are still two in the fridge. I’m sad that I was never able to have a Darcy baby, though. She would’ve had beautiful babies. With those two eggs, I’m going to make use of them with something I think she’d enjoy me using them for. Since she loved food, I’m going to make food with them in her honor: brownies. And perhaps they will cheer me up a little bit, and Darcy will be happy knowing that I put her last two eggs to good use.
I finally got up from crying over Darcy and I got a towel and I kissed her head, closed her eyes, and wrapped her up. She is lying in the doghouse now, waiting until my grandfather comes over to bury her.
And I know I say that she’s dead, and I texted Robby and Lisa and said “Darcy’s dead,” but she’s really not. I’m not just saying what I’m about to say to make me feel better, I’m saying it because I know it’s true: she is alive in Heaven. She is with God and Jesus in a paradise where her feathers aren’t muddy and she isn’t too fat and her heart didn’t explode. She is happy and beautiful with the billions of chickens who have died for no good reason. She was loved and she will continue to be loved, and I have not seen her for the last time. I wish I could remember the last thing I said to her, but really, it wasn’t the last. I will tell her that I love her many more times.
Darcy, in the six months I knew her (much too short of a time), was one of the best animals - no, one of the best living creatures - I’ve ever known. She loved me and I loved her, and she was glad I saved her life and I was glad I saved her, and we were best friends. Darcy Taylor was my sunshine, my love, my whole heart, my baby, my sister, my teacher, and my best friend. And I will love her as long as I live and I will never forget her.
Many will say that it’s silly to get this upset over a chicken, or even to love a chicken in the first place. I say that they’re wrong. I say that they’ve never known the love of a chicken. They’ve never known Darcy Taylor.
I'm just going to copy and paste the memorial post I wrote for her on my tumblr earlier.
-----
It is very difficult to make this post because I don’t feel like making sure everything I type looks pretty and I can barely see because of all the tears and my heart literally hurts.
What I found when I came home from school today is the last thing I ever expected. I went out to the chicken pen to get the eggs for the day, and about 20 feet from the door, I stopped. There was a limp, white mass lying on the ground. As though by miracle or of the hand of God, all of the bantams were trapped in the other half of the pen, and the door had closed and locked itself. Darcy lay alone, in the pouring rain, pouring so hard that I could barely see through it.
I didn’t go in at first. I didn’t believe it was real. I ran back inside and said to my mom, “Darcy… she’s…” And we knew. And I ran back outside, faster than I’d ever run, almost falling a few times, and I ran in the chicken pen and fell to my knees at the sight before me.
She was lying there. Her feathers, mangled and wet. Most of her head was buried in the dirt. All of the red had gone from her comb and wattles - there was only pale skin. Her eyes were partially open, staring out into something I couldn’t see. Her body stone cold and hard. I didn’t mind the mud and dirt and rain, I fell to my knees and fell on top of her and screamed as loud as I could, until I thought my lungs would explode. I screamed and cried and asked God “why?” over and over, until my throat was so raw that I couldn’t scream any longer. And then I whispered to her. I said I’m sorry for being so mean and calling her sassy and rude and vicious. I said I’m sorry that I didn’t spend more time with her. I said I’m sorry that I didn’t take more care to keep her weight off so she didn’t have a heart attack.
And I told her how much I love her. I told her that I love her over and over again. I told her that I don’t regret any of this and I’m glad I rescued her and I’m glad to have known her and that she was my best friend. And I promised her - a promise that I swear I will keep for the rest of my life - that I will never eat chicken again.
I don’t understand anymore how anyone could eat chicken. What if every time a chicken died for food, someone cried over it like I did? What if someone loved it the way I love Darcy? 20-something million chickens are killed for food every day. None of them knew love. No one cried when they died. And we so selfishly eat their carcasses, as though they were nothing, as though they were never living beings with souls who were capable of love.
——-
I met Darcy Taylor on February 16th, 2012. I suspect that she was born that same day, or maybe a day or two earlier at the most. My school’s agriculture class had gotten in some baby chickens that were left over from the elementary school’s agriculture class. Someone told me that the remaining chicks were being given away to any student in the school who wanted one, and I wanted one. I went down there, and at first, I was told that there were no chicks left. The teacher had taken most of them and put them on the grill outside the classroom. Day-old baby chickens grilling. I was disgusted then, but now, thinking about it disgusts me more than ever.
Then, I heard a guy say that one baby chicken was still alive. I went to look at her. Darcy was lying in a wooden box under a heat lamp. She was weak and had a splayed leg, and had not been eating or drinking properly. The guy said he was going to take her home and throw her out to his dogs. I said no. I gave him the only nine dollars I had to my name at the time, and he let me have her.
I named her Darcy Taylor because they are both intersex names, and I had no knowledge of chickens, and I didn’t know what she was. She was the sweetest baby. She followed me around and chirped so sweetly and fell asleep in my hand every chance she got. I fixed her leg and got her to eat and drink, and there were a few times when I lay in the floor and she fell asleep on me, and we would just sleep together. I loved that chicken like my own baby.
She grew quickly. Her yellow baby fuzz was replaced with gorgeous, snow-white feathers. Her eyes turned from brown, lightened to green, and ended up a bright amber. When she was a month old, I got her some baby bantams to be her friends. She became leader of the flock quickly, and a month later, I moved them all outside to a pen that any chicken would call paradise. I went out and sat with the chickens daily. One day, I took The Hunger Games with me and I read them the first chapter. Darcy grew and grew, and she was my favorite chicken and honestly my closest friend. I know I say that the rats are my best friends, but I didn’t save their lives and have them from the day they were born.
Darcy was likely a Cornish Cross; a chicken meant to gain as much weight as possible in order to be killed for food as soon as possible. Many are killed at eight weeks. They have been bred over the years to gain weight, no matter how little you feed them, and so she grew. I tried to exercise her and give her smaller meals, but she gained weight. I estimated her today to be about fifteen pounds.
As Darcy grew, she lost her sweetness, and replaced it with sass. Not mean sass. She just had a lot of personality, and she’s the one who taught me that chickens are more than just “those animals we eat.” They have souls. They’re just like us. She growled and made weird, angry noises. She was the original Angry Bird. She pranced around and chased me around the yard. One time, she pulled Lisa’s bracelet right off of her arm and ran in circles with it.
I found Darcy’s first egg on Saturday the eighteenth. She laid, if I remember correctly, five eggs in her lifetime. They were light brown with little speckles, and so pretty. There are still two in the fridge. I’m sad that I was never able to have a Darcy baby, though. She would’ve had beautiful babies. With those two eggs, I’m going to make use of them with something I think she’d enjoy me using them for. Since she loved food, I’m going to make food with them in her honor: brownies. And perhaps they will cheer me up a little bit, and Darcy will be happy knowing that I put her last two eggs to good use.
I finally got up from crying over Darcy and I got a towel and I kissed her head, closed her eyes, and wrapped her up. She is lying in the doghouse now, waiting until my grandfather comes over to bury her.
And I know I say that she’s dead, and I texted Robby and Lisa and said “Darcy’s dead,” but she’s really not. I’m not just saying what I’m about to say to make me feel better, I’m saying it because I know it’s true: she is alive in Heaven. She is with God and Jesus in a paradise where her feathers aren’t muddy and she isn’t too fat and her heart didn’t explode. She is happy and beautiful with the billions of chickens who have died for no good reason. She was loved and she will continue to be loved, and I have not seen her for the last time. I wish I could remember the last thing I said to her, but really, it wasn’t the last. I will tell her that I love her many more times.
Darcy, in the six months I knew her (much too short of a time), was one of the best animals - no, one of the best living creatures - I’ve ever known. She loved me and I loved her, and she was glad I saved her life and I was glad I saved her, and we were best friends. Darcy Taylor was my sunshine, my love, my whole heart, my baby, my sister, my teacher, and my best friend. And I will love her as long as I live and I will never forget her.
Many will say that it’s silly to get this upset over a chicken, or even to love a chicken in the first place. I say that they’re wrong. I say that they’ve never known the love of a chicken. They’ve never known Darcy Taylor.
