Rest in Peace Bergamot

I lost a good hen yesterday. Bergamot was a sweet tempered Muran that laid beautiful darker brown eggs. She was three this spring.

I like the idea of an "urban farmer" but I realized there is one crucial element of having any sort of animals that I do not possess. I am not able to kill. The sad reality is that I knew she was not doing well for several months and she should have been culled to put her out of her misery. But I could not do it.

I was raised around hunters and have many memories of my dad and his cousin dressing deer in the shed after a successful morning. One very fond memory of deer brains plopping out of the top of a deer skull and a barn cat eating the warm organ. The texture reminded me of what the bottom of pizza looks like when you take off the toppings and lick off the sauce. Yummy.

I would ask my dad if he "caught a deer" and he would reply he did not catch it but killed it. It never stuck and often I would ask if he caught one after being out. Maybe I didn't want to make the connection between my dad being out, a dead deer and the delicious meat that was in our freezer.

It was the same way with fishing. My sister and I would reluctantly go with my dad but there was no way I was a) touching the worm or b) touching the fish that ate the worm! I thought I was pretty good a fishing since my worm always go eaten but I never wanted anything to do with the fish on the end.

All my life I either saw animals alive or dead but not in the in between stage. That thin line between this world and the next. From movies that thin line was filled with suffering before it ended. It was violent, painful, scary. In real life that thin line is also filled with those things and we all hope for the opposite. We hope for peace and a quiet ending. I do not want to be a part of that thin line since the stakes are high that peace is not the way it will happen.

I am grateful Bergamot went quietly. I sensed something was happening yesterday afternoon while we were washing strawberries. She was poking around the shed by the dirt. She laid down like she always did but something was off. When I peaked out a few minutes later her head rested on her breast in such a way that I knew she had crossed over. So quick. In an instant. Life. Death. She was a good chicken.

Thanks for the eggs and the enjoyment of watching you poke around the backyard. I am glad you got to see some snow this winter.