Three years ago I would not have expected to have chickens, let alone love them. But when Ella and I moved to Short Meadow and the chicken house was sitting there, dusty but mostly ready it seemed a better place to start than the runner ducks I had in mind (and still want) as no ponding was required.
So that following March I stood in line (yes, really) to get day-old chicks. Maisy and Daisy were indistinguishable for a couple of weeks but as the chicks began hopping out of their enclosure to explore beyond the heat lamp, Maisy stayed behind and ate and ate. She was the first to lay an egg and the first to go broody, which she did with a great deal of grumbling but never, ever pecking. She continued her youthful disdain of exercise, always laying and brooding in the lower bunk of nest boxes.
In January I had to take a break from the hen house due to a broken ankle but on my return in March Maisy took to greeting me in the morning by sitting on the shutter laid crosswise in front of the door to keep the straw in. This prevented the other chickens from getting out and me getting in, but was a fabulous opportunity for conversation which Maisy always greatly enjoyed.
Last Wednesday she was not on the shutter. I found her where she had fallen asleep and died just before dawn. All the things that made her death at just 18 months shocking are the same things that give me comfort. She was not distressed in any way, and had spent the previous day happily scratching and eating bugs and doing everything a chicken most likes to do. She'd been laying regularly and all the other chickens are fine. So most likely her early behavior was a sign of something congenital that finally caught up with her. She had a good life and taught me a lot about the ways of chickens. The hen house just isn't the same without her.