It is with great sadness that I to have to publish this post. Our little flagship hen, Mabel, died today.
While at the vet, she aspirated on the table during her blood draw. They couldn’t get her back, even with two vets and three techs working on her. This strengthens our growing suspicion about heart disease. (The excessive fluid buildup in her abdomen was a big clue. And more obviously, the fact that she had a heart attack while being attended to.) I read that when a chicken shows signs of sickness, it’s usually too late at that point. So I know that for her to have been this low, it was probably very dire.
Before I took her to the vet, I brought her outside to sit in the sun and enjoy feeling the grass beneath her feet. Marge and Goldie sauntered by to deliver the usual pleasantries (Hi there, Hey there, Ho there, How ya been, Seen any good grubs over in that patch of grass? Nah…you?), and then she rested in her box in the sun for a little while. That is how I will remember her: sitting in that patch of sun.
So I drink my wine and remember the hen who survived a thousand attacks at the farm (well, not a thousand, but it seems like it), and how lucky I was to have her bright little spirit in my life.
I am so sad. Sometimes, there’s just not enough wine.
Everyone shares their support (thank you so much), assures me that I did all I could and more than most (I try to remember this), and reminds me that she was an extraordinary hen that lived the high life (this, I know).
The logic, the pragmatic thoughts, the justifications, I can accept. The emotions, well, that will take a little more time.