I’m still weeping as I write this. My beautiful feathered friends are gone. My heart is in pieces and I so desperately want it not to be true. Please let me go home this afternoon and discover it’s some terrible prank.
But I’ll never again see their beady little eyes staring in my kitchen window or hear their beaks pecking on the glass, demanding corn cobs and scraps.
Last night, when Husband got the call, I held it together thinking it might not be as bad as it sounded.
But it couldn’t get much worse.
All five of my babies were torn to shreds in broad daylight in their run yesterday.
They were supposed to live long, happy lives and die of old age. Instead their last minutes were filled with terror and agony.
My beautiful Henny Penny, Fluffy, Nibbles, Pecky and Fuzzy have been reduced to a pile of blood and feathers.
You probably won’t understand the keening, howling, pleading and sobbing I did last night. They were only chooks, right?
But I raised them from tiny babies, they’d been part of my life for four years. I had the taj mahal of chicken runs built so they could perch on my window sill and be part of the family, instead of being relegated to some far corner of the yard.
I loved those chooks. I want them to be there waiting for me this afternoon. But they’re gone forever.
I have to tell the kids now.
I’m just so terribly sad.