The neighbours’ chooks and roosters were making a big noise again this morning, in a different part of the coffee paddock from yesterday, so I ran down there, still in pyjamas, and didn’t see a fox but did find the headless body of a brown chook.
I hope the neighbours have more than one brown chook and this isn’t the one I’m thinking of. There are a number of chook groups that wander around the place as separate day-tribes, only one of which comes to my place. The chook pen was built right on the boundary between the neighbours’ property and the one where I live, so it’s no surprise that about half the birds are over here at my place every day. I assume the neighbours don’t care, and they sure don’t show any interest when the birds are in distress (such as yesterday and this morning), which shits me, frankly. They don’t deserve to have chooks.
So, it’s possible there was another brown chook in one of the other tribes, but, if not, the dead brown chook was my favourite of their birds. She used to come over here every day, right up to the house, even if the others stayed further away. She’d hop up the back stairs, and, at times when I’d forgotten to close the door, she’d walk right into the laundry and drink out of the dogs’ water dishes – which the dogs didn’t particularly like, but nevertheless put up with.
When I was digging the garden she’d stand closest to my feet. I liked the way she trusted me; it made me feel like a bird person.
She was just a really nice bird, and a loner, which is unusual in birds, I think, and one of the reasons I liked her so much (birds of a feather flock together). I thought of her as a friend, really, if chooks can be friends, and yes, of course they can.
Anyway, I stood there between the rows of coffee trees in my pyjamas and looked at the dead bird and couldn’t feel anything, just said “Oh no.”
Oh no. Poor brown chook. She was lovely.