Becky The Chicken
Becky was one of the first batch of chickens that Bobbie brought home 5 1/2 years ago. Mom asked me to name one of the chickens after her, there were two Russian Orloffs, and not being able to tell the difference between the two chicks, named both of them Becky.
Both grew up to be relatively fearless and fierce. One of the Beckys had a twisted toe, so almost every day we would take her in and splint it, brace it, etc. trying to straighten it. This didn't work, but in the meantime Becky became the tamest of all the chickens.
Her sister, known as "Boss Becky" was attacked by a hawk one day, Pete (human) and Velocirooster (Monstrous Autsralorp) went running to help her. Boss Becky ran and hid. We found her with blood all over her head and neck, but after close examination only found a small cut on her neck. Trying to imagine how or where it had been distributed so well, we realized with dawning pride that the blood was not, in fact, hers. Anyway, Boss Becky eventually faded away a couple years later over a few days peacefully in the bathtub.
Leaving us with "Twisted Toe Becky" who became just "Becky". Becky was more like a dog, she would come when you called (though you had better have food if you wanted her to do it a second time), sit outside the door and beg, occasionally peck to be let in.
We did let Becky inside once in awhile, to feed her oats or let her clean up whatever was on the floor. She knew not to poop in the house; from what I've observed, birds can't help WHEN they're going to go, but they can help WHERE they're going to be when it happens. As long as she had a way out, she wouldn't poop inside.
She was our search and rescue chicken: If another of the birds was traumatized and in hiding (which they can do for days) we would place Becky nearby; when the hidden bird heard and saw Becky safe and calm it would come out of hiding. She would follow me when I was gardening, sometimes coming too close to the hoe in searching for insects I'd unearthed. She was the only bird we had that I'd seen recognize snails as food, she was an enthusiastic and effective snail assassin. She would also eat small slugs, but usually left those for the ducks.
She was not as afraid of dogs as most of the birds, which may have led to her demise. My friend Jax was visiting and brought her three scottie dogs. I told her she was welcome to let them off the leash, and she said she was worried about what they would do to the chickens. I turned to see Becky facing off with one of the scotties. The dog barked and Becky pecked him on the nose. The dog yiped and backed off.
"I think we're good."
One day I was out turning over logs to expose insects and worms, and called to her "Becky!" She came running as she usually did.
Pete was watching and said, annoyed "Your chicken is more obedient than my dog."
Months later, Pete and I were out on the property and I called for Becky. She didn't come -though the other chickens did, they'd learned her name meant food. Pete, who'd made significant progress with his dog, smirked smugly "haha."
"I wonder where she went?" A short search proved fruitful brought me back to Pete, "Oh, she was LAYING me BREAKFAST. Only one thing comes out of your dog..."
That earned me a finger.
I'd told the landlords if they did anything to hurt Becky we'd leave. Of course if you have a pet chicken you're subject to more of the usual jesting threats about them doubling as food. I got even more of these when the looks they earned became entertaining, then less as I offered to trade chicken for their yappy dogs: Easy 5-star Korean recipes were widely available online. My partner offered to construct a baited trebuchet in hopes of hurling the little mongrels into the river.
This year it was becoming apparent her twisted foot was bugging her a little, and she was sticking close to the house, but still got around quite well. She stayed close to home, but I don't know how far afield she would wander when we weren't there.
We came back from a camping trip a couple weeks ago and she was missing. I spent several hours calling and looking for her until well after dark. After hearing no one had seen her that day and she didn't reappear the next morning I hardened up and accepted the worst.
The next morning I went up the little trail toward the back of the property and found a few fluffy red-tipped feathers, probably from her backside. Speculation ranged from a bear -we'd found bear poop by the beehives- to a bobcat -which had taken three of our ducks several years ago. A copper maran had gone missing the week before.
I walked up the road seeking closure and looking down onto the property saw a coyote. I yelled at it, asking why it took her and not one of the roosters. It sniffed the air, we stared at each other for awhile and it eventually loped off. Evidence was circumstantial, but I had my answer: Aside from a bobcat, another predator would have made a lot more of a mess.
I reluctantly called Mom, who'd referred to her as "My Grandchicken" and "Namesake". The timing was good(under the circumstances) as I'd had a cancer scare I was waiting to hear the results of, so saying "I have some bad news." took a deep breath and said "Becky is gone." She was over the moon that it wasn't about me. I don't give Mom enough credit for handling bad news (two days later I found it wasn't cancer).
Later that evening I was wandering around by the goat pen and saw the coyote coming down the trail. "FUCK OFF!" I yelled, and it did, proving that Billy Connolly's opinion on the term crossed species barriers as well. We put the gun by the door and made sure to mark territory at the base of the trail (yes, that is exactly what you think it means) and haven't seen any sign of it since.
The next day my hard drive died, and I still haven't found my most recent backup, which means at worst I've lost three years of work and e-mails, that of which isn't on the web. It's an SSD drive, so there's not a lot of hope in recovery.
There have been other things going on as well that aren't good. I don't know if I'm strong or just numb (is there a difference on the surface?), part of me has shut down, it's like having emotional earplugs, as the good stuff is tempered as well.
The roller coaster wasn't letting me off; Worldcon was just around the corner and I had to salvage what I could, the artwork I'd planned to display was pretty much gone, or I was just stuck with low-rez images online.
Regardless, I was REALLY looking forward to the convention, and it turned out to be the amazing and wonderful social and learning experience I'd anticipated -that's for another post.
Upon arriving at Worldcon, we discovered my beloved pet had managed to make it onto the memorial page for the eyes of thousands. Becky's name wasn't mentioned, but my late landlord had a hand in it. Thanks, Bobbie.
