Clover, posing on L's bike. |
When L called me at work yesterday, I knew something was wrong. “Mom, Clover died! I went out to gather eggs and she was in the coop.” Poor L. Such a shock to find that little feathered body lying still.
I
was surprised. Clover had seemed perfectly fine the day before. I pictured the small,
round hen.
When
we gave my sister-in-law our hen-who-was-really-a-rooster, Cluck Norris, she
had the girls each pick out a bantam hen to take home. They were probably a
couple years old. L picked up a little barred-rock Bantam, named Clover; and M chose
a silver laced Wyandotte, named Oreo.
Several
days later, a mink slipped into my sister-in-law’s coop and killed the small
Bantams that remained—easy prey because they didn’t roost high. Had we waited a
week, Oreo and Clover would have been among the hens that were killed. But
they were safely ensconced in their new urban coop,
country-chickens-turned-city-chickens, oblivious of their narrow escape. That
summer, Clover was rocked and rocked on the glider, talked to, carried around,
and doted on by L. We have photos of her in bicycle baskets, on pillows, in
swings. We laughed because when the rest of the flock would be in another part
of the yard, Clover would wander around confused, making woeful braaaahck
sounds, wondering where her friends were. Somehow, she was always the hen left
behind.
I’ve
written about her often, how she was a brave little hen who didn’t hesitate to
spar with big Thelma, drawing her little self up as tall as she could. How our
Dalmatian chased poor Clover under the house, where Clover wedged herself into
the lattice under the porch until we rescued her. And Clover was one of the
little hens who survived the theft of our big hens that cold evening in
November.
She’s
had her share of close calls, has Clover. She was the hen who went to the fair,
but refused to eat or drink until we relented and brought her home. As soon as
she was back in her yard, with her flock, she perked right up.
We
knew she was an older hen. She’d wasn't laying much, if at all, and that was OK. We didn’t have her because of her egg production.
Clover was one of L's
favorites, and her passing leaves an empty space in the coop. Now, there are six.
When I arrived home and gave L a hug, she said, “She was the best little hen.”
And she was. RIP Clover.
I'm so sorry. I don't look forward to any of that part of raising my little flock, but with all pets, they just don't live long enough. RIP Clover.
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