Turkey Boy was a big, gangly, weird looking chicken. She belonged to my son Alex, and he was understandably upset when she died. We buried her in the garden, and I told Alex that when it gets warmer we'll plant a special flower there for her. On the scale of traumatic childhood pet experiences, I suppose this falls somewhere in between flushing a school-carnival goldfish and having to shoot Old Yeller. It provided an interesting opportunity to talk to my kids about the natural cycle of life. They seemed to grasp the concept that nothing lasts forever and everything is connected to everything else a little easier than most adults probably do. After he finished crying, Alex's first question was if we could cut Turkey Boy up and eat her. :)
For the record, the remaining six chickens appear to be unfazed by their coopmate's passing.