Shell gets wings that work.

Photo copyright Aji, 2019; all rights reserved.

Yes, it's a nod to Opus, but Shell gets wings that work. Or, rather, got, past tense — about 1:15 MDT this afternoon.

She's in the photo up above, one of the three black-and-white chicks, so named for the shell-shaped white medallions on her back and tailfeathers. Silver-laced Wyandotte, that's what they're called, and of these three, little Shell was the rattiest-looking still. Their feathers have taken longer to grown back in post-molt, and hers were taking the longest of all. It made her the shyest; she seemed to be aware that her feathers, particularly her tailfeathers, were especially thin and raggedy, and it made her feel vulnerable.

She was more vulnerable than we knew.

That stupid Shepard, one of them, from northeast of us. Actually, it's not the Shepard's fault, not really; the poor thing is, as usual, starved. But I'd gone into the kitchen for just a moment, and I came back into the living room and saw it outside the studio to the southeast, shaking something in its jaws. I ran out, no coat, no boots, and yelled at it to go home; it dropped its prize immediately and took off. Remembering what happened with Bent-Beak, I had hopes for another resurrection, but by the time I got my gear on and got out there . . . well, there was already long since no hope on that score. I immediately went searching for the other chickens, and 13 of them were huddled in and under the indoor coop in the larger "coop" (i.e., barn). That left three more to find, and we eventually did, but apparently the dog had waltzed right into the coop and grabbed her out of their feed tray, given the loose feathers scattered all around it.

Yes, I know, I failed her terribly. This house is so solid, so soundproof, that I can hear almost nothing from outside, although there might not have been anything to hear, anyway. Wings was at work in the studio, and very little breaks through the sound of a hammer constantly striking metal on an anvil. If I'd only been a couple of minutes quicker, looked out the window of the laundry room, something . . . . She's buried now, on the west side next to the garden plot where some of her late sisters rest, with everything she needs for her journey. After all these years and al our many, many chickens, there will plenty of girls ready to welcome her. And she'll be able to fly now, without fear.

We're heartsick, and also furious. There's not much to be done except to scare the dog away. It seems like a very sweet pup otherwise, but when a dog is left to starve, well, we can't very well blame it for seizing an opportunity to survive. It's my fault for not noticing the dog's arrival earlier. We love you, Shell; fly safely now, little one.



All content, including photos and text, are copyright Aji, 2019; all rights reserved. Nothing herein may used or reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the owner.