I write this through tears. Today I said goodbye to my dear Yellow Feet. We had her euthanized this morning after a trip to the vet and x-rays revealed a large mass in her abdomen. Ovarian cancer. This cancer can appear in hens 2 years of age or older. The better layer a hen is, the more she is likely to get it, ironically. Also I read recently that hens are the only animal to get this very female and human cancer. Yellow Feet was almost seven and a half years old. She had a good, long life for a hen. We buried her near Henri in the rose garden. I am not a big fan of the Rainbow Bridge thing, but I do believe that somewhere out in the universe, Henrietta and Yellow Feet are happily hanging out together. I sure hope they check in on me once in a while. Meanwhile, I want to take the time to recall the life of a very precious flock member, my little warrior, as we came to call her as she bravely fought this cancer until it got the better of her.
Over seven years ago, in April, my love affair with chickens began. I have told this story when I wrote about Henrietta. But here is what I haven’t told you. I came home with three baby chicks. I was certain one was going to die so I went back to the feed store and got one more chick. This one was a bit smaller than the other three. From the start she eyed the world with wariness. She was NOT a people lover. She did not like her flock mates and preferred to keep to herself. She was difficult to catch and having a nice cuddle was her idea of torture. All four chickens lived and became my original flock. I named this little feisty one Amelia Chickenheart because it was clear she intended to forge her own way. Eventually, though, she named herself. Because she was smaller than the others, and had the most dainty yellow legs and feet, she became Yellow Feet.
As Yellow Feet grew, she became quite a little bully. She terrorized Miss Roo until Miss Roo became good at hiding from her. Her only friend was Buffy Orpington. Yellow Feet and Buffy were the first to lay eggs and they would strut their stuff around the chicken yard, lording it over the others. We had to put Yellow Feet in “chicken time out” more than once. This was a little chicken tractor in our garden, surrounded by a makeshift fence. She LOVED chicken time out because it meant she could live by herself for a few days. One could see her happily pecking and digging away out in her own little space. She could have lived there happily forever.
Once back with the others, Yellow Feet became a brilliant escape artist. She daily inspected the fence for weak areas and quite often she would come up missing along with Buffy, her partner in crime. I would find them happily in some other area in the garden. When I put her back in the repaired fence, she immediately stood sizing my repair up and measuring the height of the fence in her head so she could fly over it. Which she did.
When new chickens came into the flock, Yellow Feet appointed herself chief intimidator. She would strut back and forth in front of the grow out coop, chest puffed out like The Little Colonel,” giving them the evil eye. She quickly put them in their place in the pecking order.
For all her sassiness, Yellow Feet did have some good qualities. She consistently laid the most perfect rather small brown egg. And at the end of that first terribly cold, snowy winter, she started to sing. It was amazing to hear such a sweet song come out of this little scrapper. But sing she did, when she was happy. However, if Yellow Feet went broody, which she did often, we quickly learned not to mess with her. One was likely to get a nasty peck if one ventured anywhere near the nest box. She could growl and scream like a banshee too.
Yellow Feet invented social distancing. She was a master at it. She never did anything with the rest of the flock. As she got older, her favorite thing was to sleep alone atop a large plastic bag of leaves. She came every morning to the run door for a handful of sunflower seeds, but that was her only social interaction.
We always thought that Yellow Feet would outlive the other members of her original flock. In all the time she was with us she was never sick. This last week has been rough for her. I guess the tumor was pressing against her other organs so she couldn’t eat, or drink. It is the only time she ever allowed me to pick her up. The last two mornings I took her out to the rose garden and she went right to the little stone statue which stands over Henrietta’s grave. I think she was telling me she was ready to quit this earthly scene. Well done, good and faithful warrior.
Under A Hen's Wing 