I'm so tired of reporting yet another death on our teeny tiny farm.
We lost Goldie sometime overnight on Saturday.
And of course I have been plagued with the woulda, coulda, shoulda's.
So many darn things can go wrong with these little hens that I feel overwhelmed with storing all the scenarios in my head.
On Saturday night when I locked up I saw she had deteriorated significantly through the day (we had been out of town for about seven hours) and was afraid she might not make it through the night. And indeed she did not. When I entered the coop on Sunday morning all the girls were abnormally subdued. Those who have been long-time readers may remember when Dottie was fatally attacked by a hawk, I came upon the scene with the remaining girls encircling her. All quiet. Clearly the chickens have their own way of dealing with death amongst their flock.
Goldie was one of the four girls we adopted through the Michigan Humane Society in August 2019 who had been rescued from a hoarding situation in Detroit.
Golda-mold (my pet name for her) had appeared lethargic in June and we administered an epsom salt soak and wormer. She pepped up and I happily noted she was talking up a storm on a daily basis.
Clearly we didn't fix the problem.
She was always somewhat of a loner, although she'd hang out with Fluffy (also one of the four) from time to time.
But always snuggled up with the rest of the big girls (next to Sweet Pea she was physically the largest girl in the flock) when it was time to get ready for bed.