On Sunday we were finally settling into being home. Still unpacking, we were due to pick up the dogs from the kennel on Monday.
I was unloading groceries from the car when I heard some strange sounds from the woods. On the hot days, the chickens have been spending time in the woods to keep cool. I looked around for the chickens, but they were nowhere to be found.
After a bit more hunting, we saw the chickens begin to emerge from the woods—one, two, three, four. There was no fifth. Professor Clucks was missing. And I had an awful feeling about it.
Tom found her a bit later, obviously victim to a predator. I think we hadn’t realized how much Daisy and all her barking had been keeping danger at bay. In her absence, a predator got close enough to strike.
We buried her in the butterfly garden. Everyone in the family cried. Shep was downright inconsolable. I can’t believe we got so attached to these chickens in such a short amount of time, but, arg, they’ve worked their way into our hearts.
On the day she arrived, we weren’t sure Professor Clucks would make it until evening. She proved us wrong, and even though she was small, she kept up with the others. A favorite of nearly everyone on account of her cuddly size. Our own little underdog.
So now when I lock up the coop each night, and do my head count, I only count to four. Which still feels wrong. But I hear this is the nature of life with chickens.
We’ll miss ya, Professor.
