Dahlia is on her way to dance in the spirit world now.

Photo copyright Aji, 2020; all rights reserved.

Our animals are family, plain and simple. We've kept chickens since April of 2012; that first round of birds is all gone now. We acquired the second round in 2014, a mix of Reds and of yellow and black sex-links (meaning that they are bred specifically so that, from the moment of hatching, they can be sorted into piles of male and female fluff for shipping/selling; they're usually hybrids). Of that group, who came from area farms (and apparently from farmers new to the business; this group was not an especially hardy lot), only three remained as of this year: two Reds and one of the black sex links. [We also acquired another round in 2016, a mix of breeds that are turning out mostly to be hardier.] 

Now, of the 6.5-year-olds, only the Reds remain.

The last of the black sex-links was, ironically, also the runt. She was short and round and had the glossiest, most iridescent black feathers of the lot, and I named her Dahlia (for the actual flower, not the '40s murder victim). As she grew up, she developed beautiful pumpkin-colored russet spots beneath her wattle, and wattle and comb were always bright red.

She was also an affectionate girl, willing to let me pick her up and hold her. When I reached for her, she would go into the submissive crouch typical of her kind — but unlike the others, when she did, she would always perform a little dance: one, two, three, four five, beating a quick tattoo on the ground with her feet. And so she became my little dancing girl.

She was also an independent thing, which, as the runt, probably served her well. But in late 2018, feral Coyote got first to Mica (better known as Little Bent-Beak, for her sideways beak, having apparently gotten stepped on by her fellow hatchlings but never any the worse for wear), and then some days or weeks later, to Dahlia.

Both survived, and oddly, both bonded thereafter, despite being different generations who hadn't really taken much notice of each other before. Mica was the classic zombie chicken, risen from the dead, touch and go for days but now as good as ever, if more watchful. Dahlia I got to before that point, ripping Coyote off her, but she sustained what would prove to be deeper injuries — not life-threatening, and not, apparently, particularly painful, but she sustained some muscle damage to one leg and the wing, and she limped thereafter. 

We knew she might not last long, because in all actuality, we had no real way of knowing what long-term damage those injuries might entail. All I could do was check her over thoroughly, moving limbs and wings and palpating surfaces and making sure that there were no bite wounds needing treatment, no inflammation or swelling or infection developing anywhere. And despite the pronounced and eventually progressive limp, she did just fine, apparently to the point of even returning to laying an egg on very rare occasions earlier this summer.

But last week, she began to fade: not in color, but in energy. It was clear that she was tired, although she was still very much engaged, and I made sure to put food and water and front of her so she could eat without expending extra effort. And she ate like a champ. Around the weekend, her comb lost all muscle tone and flopped over; again, not problem in and of itself, but one more indicator that her body was winding down. And while she remained engaged with her world, she also grew more tired by the day, and in all honesty, I did not think she would make it through the snow and sub-freezing temperatures of the last few days.

Then again, I didn't think she'd make it through Coyote's attack.

She had so many strikes against her: the runt of the flock; a brutal and near-deadly attack; permanent disability thereafter. Six and a half years is a good long run for even the healthiest hen.

For her? It's amazing.

I went to check on her first thing this morning, and she was still in the place she'd chosen, up against the wall underneath the coop, some of the food and water gone. She opened them upon hearing her name and looked at me, so I told her I'd be back to check on her later. When I came out again about 10:45 this morning, her eyes were closed, body not moving. I reached underneath to touch her, and her eyelids fluttered for just a moment, she gave a little sigh, and let her left wing fall to her side. And as nearly as I can tell, that was the moment. Dahlia is on her way to dance in the spirit world now.

She's buried over by Carter's tree, just a few feet north and west of it, a little east of another piñon. It's a spot where several of her sisters lie, and it's one reason why, even in this drought, those two trees are thriving. We buried her, as we do with all of our animals, with everything they need for their journey, and she has some of the last of the bright gold dill flowers, blue-violet bee balm, and a few small wild sunflowers adorning her resting place. She and Bent-Beak have long been our favorites, even before their respective injuries, and I knew this day would hurt more than the others. 

It does.

But she's on her way now, and in the best way: She waited to see the sun and feel the warmth again, and then just went to sleep.

We love you Dahlia. You'll be able to do your steps with no pain now, my Little Dancing Girl.

All content, including photos and text, are copyright Wings and Aji, 2020; all rights reserved. Nothing herein may used or reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the owner.