Goldie

Nicholai loves his chickens. For the past seven years, since he was just a young punk, we have been raising urban hens. At least once per day, I'll say to Nicholai, "Let's go check our chickies," and no matter what he's doing, he bounces up and trots beside me out to the coop.

The chickens have pretty great digs, a cedar-sided house, with heavy-duty screen windows for ventilation and sky-lights to provide adequate natural light. Two nesting boxes allow for comfortable and private egg-laying. Surrounding the coop are two fenced yards – or runs – where the girls can scratch and peck and take their treasured dust-baths. Nicholai takes up a post just outside the fence, waiting. He never tries to enter the run, standing patient and expectant; with tail gently wagging, he licks his lips in anticipation of a precious gift from the chickens. Dogs may be descended from wolves, but a visit to the chicken coop seems to call Nicholai to the side of wily coyote, knowing what yummy gifts the chickens offer.

The chickens flock around my feet when I come near, in anticipation of treats. I check the nesting boxes for eggs, and while there are always fewer in winter, wonderful fresh eggs delight us every day. On occasion, as I return from the coop a nice warm egg will "slip" from my hand and Nicholai eagerly laps up the clear egg white and bright yellow yolk, crunching down bits of shell, naturally balancing his mineral intake.

Nicholai has always patiently tolerated his hens. He chases ducks, geese, herons, and seagulls whenever we're out hiking, but his own chickens have carte blanche to roam the yard and garden. Perhaps he recognizes them as part of our family, or pack. Personally, I think he appreciates those tasty eggs.

We lost our sweetest hen, Goldie, today. Amenable to being held and petted, she often stopped by the office door when I was working, and I will miss her peering in to say hello. We don't know what ailed her. She became lethargic, had a small "fit," then flopped her head down, dead. Chickens are both remarkably strong and oddly fragile, and at over three years old, it may have simply been her time.

There'll be more hens in the future, there have been quite a few already, but little Goldie was a special girl. Goodbye, sweet hen.