Charlie’s Not Feeling Well
Processing farm life can be difficult. For a three- year- old, even more so. A few weeks ago we found
Sara’s pet chicken, Blackie, dead below her roost. No marks, no symptoms...could have been simple old
age. Many of our chickens were gifts at one point or another, without much history.
With the most pitiable expression, little Sara has since announced repeatedly, “My chicken Blackie
died.” I offered her free choice of our current chicks, but she is holding out for a black one with feathers
on its feet, like Blackie. Last week we drove to a friend’s to get fertilized eggs from her black Marans,
and saw one hen (a French Marans) who looked just like Blackie. We brought back the precious eggs.
One of our Australorp crosses recently started setting a nest. My plan was to slip the eggs under her.
However, even after dark with limited flashlight use, she was too awake for that. Instead, one by one I
set them down beside her and she pushed them under herself. I wanted to exchange for the eggs she
had started setting a few days earlier so they would hatch simultaneously, but no way. I don’t have a lot
of hope for a successful outcome. A few days ago our other setting hen hatched out her own four eggs
while abandoning the special ones I had slipped under her, including green ones from our Easter Egger.
Then last week, one of our helpers noticed that Charlie, our beautiful and very sweet rooster, was
sneezing and coughing. Pollen? Pneumonia? He had his coop available as always; we have no idea why
he would have gotten sick. We dosed him with broken-off bits of garlic clove, which he happily pecked
up. He expressed no willingness to be picked up and further dosed. I decided to open up the pen to let
him out in the fresh dandelion and clover for lots of Vitamin C. Contrary to suburbanites, we deliberately
cultivate our dandelion plants, picking the greens for our rabbits.
Sara would say solemnly, “C’arlie’s not feeling well,” and imitate his silent open-mouthed attempt to
crow. However, he seemed to be doing okay otherwise, so upon my return from my latest trip, I didn’t
resume the garlic feedings, although we still left him free to roam.
Saturday, DJ said, “I think something’s wrong with Charlie.” The rooster wasn’t seeming vigorous and
still couldn’t crow. I went back to feeding him garlic cloves, and was able to administer some essential
oils after he was roosting for the night. We could hear his heavy breathing. I thought about bringing him
inside for the night and treating him with hot poultices of fried onions, which I am convinced helped
save our son’s pet chicken years ago. However, I was concerned about the stress on Charlie, not
accustomed to much handling. Instead, I set up a heat lamp in the coop.
Meanwhile, Honeysuckle had held off on giving birth. Our neighbor had previously checked her
ligaments and pronounced them tight, so not to expect an imminent arrival. Meanwhile, the weeks had
gone on. When I checked on the does Sunday evening, Honeysuckle was in the back of the barnyard
shelter and struggled to rise. I maneuvered her to the birthing stall, wondering if she was finally coming
to showdown time. Around 10, DJ went to check on her once more before bedtime. “Well, there was a
mama and one baby,” he said when he came back, in such an offhand way I wasn’t sure if he was joking.
Sure enough, Honeysuckle had celebrated Easter with a good-sized boy, a blue eyed, black and white
Jeremy baby with splashy markings. I duly helped towel him dry and tie off, cut and disinfect the cord,
then imprinted him and made sure he was nursing okay before returning to the house. Our little
grandson JW has christened him Leopold.
Birth and death, death and birth. I’d had high hopes for Charlie’s recovery. Yesterday morning he was
eating and drinking and moving around. Yet as I worked to add fine netting to our electrified poultry pen
(to keep chicks in and snakes out) I heard fluttering in the coop. Charlie was in his death throes.
Now Sara says, “C’arlie died. I miss C’arlie. He was our nice rooster. He wasn’t feeling well. It’s sad.”
Then she remembers, “My chicken Blackie died.” Sorrow upon sorrow.
We talk about the new heaven and the new earth, and maybe if God so wills there will be a new Charlie
and a new Blackie among the animals. We know there will be no death and “NO MORE SADNESS!” and
no more crying.
She pets new little Leopold and feeds the puppies. The sun is shining and the chicks are peeping.