Dear Henrietta and Penelope

Every time I walk by your wooden chicken house sporting a pukeko with rotating legs on the apex, I’m sad. Sad your lives had to end in terror when our guest’s dog leapt over the fence.

Henrietta, it looks like you were taken by surprise, in front of the coop. Your light grey feathers still plaster the ground, days later. Penelope, I fear you were running for your because your body was close to the fence. I feel guilty we clipped your wings to stop you escaping.

Why were we so keen to keep you penned in? It could have been the slathers of bark you threw across the gravel, where decomposing fibres now support innumerable weed seedlings. My excuse is we were trying to keep you safe by making you stay home. We wanted to stop you striding through the grass under the gaze of the hawks and falcons. You bustle across my memory, a single-file trio of mini-hovercrafts when compared with our Brown Shavers.

I also regret we compared you so unfavourably with the Brown Shavers, maligning your intermittent egg laying. Why should you lay eggs daily, all year round, to please your masters and mistresses? Why should you sleep in the expensive hen house when there was a beautiful kowhai tree towering above it? Your personalities made it clear you weren’t in the business of pandering to humans.

At six years old, you were middle-aged when you died. Still a number of chicken years left in you. Six years in which we developed our human-chicken relationship. I have to admit I was a little disappointed early on. I’d ordered chickens which were a cross of Italian Anconas, flighty but regular-laying birds, and British Buff Orpingtons, typically friendly and large. You, and your sisters, turned out to be of a flighty and not-so-friendly persuasion.

We trained with dog roll (you loved dog roll). Every day I brought dog roll for you to eat out of my hand, getting you closer to tolerating humans. I never exactly succeeded but you occasionally let me touch your tail feathers when I brought you silver beet. I’ve never seen anybody as happy to receive silver beet as you – it’s gratifying when bodies come running in excitement when they see silver beet leaves.

I’m also sad every time I search for your remaining sister – Cleopatra. Gladys predeceased you all precipitately some years ago – sudden chicken death syndrome. Cleopatra, however, now lives in fear and hiding. We have seen her high in the kowhai, called and left food, but she won’t come down when we are around. Fair enough. Would you come out of your tree after a predator killed your siblings?

I’m sorry we invited someone to visit who lacked the common sense to keep their dog under control, knowing it was bred for fowl hunting. I’m sorry I didn’t specifically tell our guest to keep their dog on a leash at all times. I didn’t fulfil my duty to you – you gave us eggs and my job was to keep you as safe as was within my power. I didn’t exercise my power. 

I wish I believed in a happy hen house in the sky where you throw your chicken food on the ground and it perpetually returns to the feeder. Where you and Gladys are reunited under a sun that always shines but is never too hot because chickens don’t do heat. Where you have full wings and fly over fences to your hearts content, safe from attack.

As I write this, I find I'm crying, again. We become attached to all the beings with whom we share our lives.

Auf wiedersehen

Pets