I thought it was a hawk. Callie thought it was an owl. We hoped it wasn’t a fox.
Regardless, while the goats were away (hopefully breeding), someone snuck off with one of my chickens’ heads. I don’t really know which chicken, since I can only tell them apart by looking at all of their heads together. Now, that wasn’t possible. I just know that it wasn’t Bird (who only has one eye and is therefore easily identifiable). Callie, who discovered the victim, declared it to be Monty. And so it was.
Monty was a good chicken. An excellent layer. She is buried at the foot of a very tall weed beneath the willow tree.
She is survived by three sisters and four Rhode Island Reds that have been crashing at our place since November. Farewell, dear Monty. And thank you for being the first animal I ever buried. That phobia had me paralyzed for years.
(And I only buried the chicken cause my five-year-old demanded it and Jeff wasn’t home. I refused. She offered to cover the chicken with a towel if I would come outside and see where she was. I agreed. How pathetic is that? But I did it! I totally buried a dead animal! I AM a grown up…)