Never Name a Chicken

I feel like over the years I become desensitized about a chicken dying.  That used to be traumatic for me.  Not like dog or horse traumatic, but traumatic nonetheless.  It helped when my flock grew big enough that I couldn't tell all of the birds apart and they didn't all have names.  Regardless, there are always a few that take it upon themselves to become more like pets and less like farm animals.

This was especially true of this strange little chicken that attached herself to Milan that he called Gray Bird.

This bird waited by the gate for him to come into the chicken yard and stuck by his side till he left.  

Yesterday afternoon I saw gray bird in the process of laying an egg in a strange place outside of the laying boxes.  I didn't think much of it until Milan and I did chores a few hours later and she was in the same spot.  Assuming she might be egg-bound, I searched the web on my phone for what to do about an egg-bound hen while I fed the horses.  When I finally got to her, it was pretty clear she had worse problems than a bound egg.  I didn't know until last night that a chicken could prolapse but I'm pretty sure that is what happened to her.  Unfortunately a prolapsed chicken doesn't have a great prognosis.  Her suffering ended when Robert got home from work.  

This morning Milan woke with a runny nose and I told him I hoped he wasn't getting sick.  He looked at me very seriously and said, "Mom, gray bird sick."  I know he won't take this nearly as hard as I do and will forget about this bird soon enough.  But tonight I don't look forward to picking up eggs.