R.I.P. Turkey Boy

This past Saturday evening our 'Burbstead was the scene of a minor tragedy. As I was preparing to take the kids to a basketball game, I went to close up the chicken coop and noticed that one of our girls (Turkey Boy) was missing. A flashlight search around the yard ensued without any results. I set the kids up inside and went back out to look some more. I found her in the corner of the chicken run, laying in some mud and half covered in leaves. She was freezing cold and barely breathing. I took her inside, cleaned her off, and set her in a laundry basket full of straw with some warm towels on top. She seemed to be breathing a little better before I went to sleep, but the next morning she was dead.

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.