Goodbye to Celeste

I awakened to discover one of the chickens had been lying dead right by the door of the hen house. She was the last of the surviving Wellsummers from our original flock. We called her, Celeste. Unless we want to "cut her open," like I've just read online, or send her off for a necropsy, we won't learn the cause of death. I think she may have simply lived her life and died. Apparently, chickens can live anywhere from 11 years at the oldest to 1 or 2 years at the youngest - at least when there is no evidence of foul play.

I read this morning that some people don't name their hens because they live such short lives. I've discovered that to be true enough in practice. We haven't owned this first flock for 3 years yet, and there is only one remaining hen from that original flock. Maybe it's why I'm less attached to them as pets. For instance, we call our newer hens by their breed names more often than "pet" names. Although, I must admit I am feeling more inclined to use their names on this sad morning. 

There's another thing I learned today. People who have larger flocks perform the task of "culling." These are folks who have larger flocks, and basically want to weed out the poorer egg layers. They have criteria for discovering what the lousy layers have in common, in terms of physical characteristics. Who knew? I guess our idea to serve the older, larger birds for dinner could be considered a form of culling, but now that aspect of our backyard chicken adventure is coming nearer to fantasy than reality.

The truth is Celeste was the most onry hen we owned. She was the queen of the hens. She was the top hen in the pecking order in our flock. Today the others are looking around wondering what to do. They look a little confused, and they are acting quite subdued. Maybe they are thinking, "When do I take my turn to eat?" 

I will observe which hen takes the place of queen in the flock, and I will report back. But I have a feeling I already know it will be the Buff Orpington. Her name is, Buffy, the coyote slayer.  Interestingly, she was too shy to pose for a picture, but the Rhode Island Red, the one we call, Rhoda, was proud to step up to the camera.