Poor, Sick Chicken

Our poor, sick chicken.

I wrote that line a couple hours ago, and then I had to stop...  

On, Monday Ross noticed that one of our chickens, Myrtle, was making a weird noise as she breathed.  On Tuesday, she was making this wheezing whine as she exhaled. We called the vet and got some medicine for her.  He said she possibly had either a gape worm that infected her trachea or a respiratory infection.  She got worse throughout the day and was even worse this morning.  We had her secluded from the rest of the girls.  As you can see in the picture, Ross was comforting her earlier today.  Unfortunately her illness got the best of her.  She passed away while I was holding her.  

I hate death.  I hate suffering.  I hate that moment when you're sitting there watching a poor, little creature suffer and you know there's no way back and you welcome death. You ask for it, beg for it, and then once you get it, you rue it.  That confliction-it's the cost of living, of loving, of feeling...

We buried Myrtle with her other fallen sisters up on the hill.  The area looks down over the house and is under an old apple tree that sprung up there probably from some deer's pooh dropped years ago.  She was a good, little chicken.  She will be missed.