pitcured: Cocky.
there are 2 groups of chickens at Fargassa.
the first, a small group of small chickens who live in a small run behind the garden.
cute, cuddly, and polite.
save Cocky, the cockerel, a little fellow with an aggressive swagger.
he makes sure his ladies are orderly and in line.
7:15am. skies start to lighten and i arrive with the day's food.
i open the door to the small house in which the darlings sleep.
Cocky is first to stumble out.
he has a look around; he makes sure it's safe for the others.
he crows confidently to send the message.
an uplifting moment to hear such a beautiful sound come from such a beautiful animal at such close range.
the ladies, shaking off the cobwebs from a lengthy sleep, stroll out one by one to assess the new day.
Cocky attempts to take a few grains and kernels of corn from my hand.
he lost the bottom half of his beak in a fight with another cockerel some years ago.
he manages, though.
a few more fistfuls of breakfast for the ladies and i'm off across the river to the second group.
i'll see these little angels in a few hours for elevensies.
the second group consists of 16 larger chickens.
the rule of the roost is called Penguin.
displaying a lovely coat of feathers that grows more brilliant and colourful each day, Penguin struts about in a conservative but promising manner.
he is a young cockerel.
his crow, heard only seldomly, is in its developing stages.
toward the end of my stay, the days would fill with enthusiastic verbal dueling between him and Cocky across the way.
each day Penguin's call strengthens. i look forward to hearing it when i return next year.
expectations are high.
the same procedure for these 16; a fistful for Penguin, and a large helping strewn around the run for the others.
these chickens are bigger and more boisterous.
they also produce more eggs this time of year.
one morning, early on, i noticed one chicken in this group lagging behind, keeping to herself.
each day i observed her.
last one out in the mornings, missing out on much of the food.
sleeping in the corner alone.
her breathing seemed labourious. she was sick.
Delores, i called her.
days passed and there was no improvement in her behaviour.
in fact, her condition seemed to worsen every day.
i conslulted Madhu and Lynden on the matter; they decided to move her into isolation in hopes she would get better.
she did not get better.
she's old, Madhu told me.
for two days Delores stayed in a small cage by herself under my care.
i administered antibiotic water through a syringe.
she didn't like it. she choked and spat the water out; we tried still.
one morning, on the penultimate day of my stay at Fargassa, Jess noticed that Delores was looking worse than ever.
she hardly moved.
her beak rested on the side of the wooden A-frame, propping her head up.
she was too weak to do anything else.
i picked her up and attempted to give her more water.
a futile activity.
there was no fight left in her.
Delores died in my arms that morning.
we held a small ceremony and large bonfire for her the next morning.
the cremation was deeply moving and difficult to be present for.
we thanked Delores for all her years and all her eggs.
on my watch, the total number of chickens at Fargassa fell from 22 to 21.
these things happen, i know.
i'm not supposed to blame myself.
but i can't help but feel somewhat responsible for her passing that morning.
i'll take the experience as a valuable lesson, and keep it with me always.
i won't forget you, Delores.
i know you're up in chicken heaven, laying eggs and waddling about.
Merry Christmas, old girl.
and Merry Christmas to everyone reading.
take care of yourselves and those you care about; cherish any time you have together.
Mum, Pop, Cian, Grandma, Grandpa, Mama, all my family and all my beautiful friends.
i miss you all and i love you all.
