Our
white leghorn, Henrietta, is not feeling
well. She has had a huge molt this fall, but she has also, suddenly, grown
old. Her comb is drooping. She is moving
slowly and napping a great deal. This week, she has not flown up on the perch
at night. One afternoon, when I offered her some banana—a preferred food—she did
not even see it. I was sure that she was about to go. I let all of the ladies
out while I planted bulbs. The Buffs ran about, hunting bugs in the grass. Henny
sat, stooped, in the sun. When she did not even come out on Friday, I sat with
her for a while, telling her that she had been a good chicken and it was ok to
go. I sent Mark out when he came home
for the same reason. The next morning, I did not rush out; when Mark took a
while coming back in, I was dreading the news. “She’s still there,” he said. “Looks
pretty good. She even ate something.”
Today,
we let all of the hens out again. Henny came out to sit in the sun near the
greenhouse for the afternoon. She was
munching on some grass. I like to think that she is waiting, as I am, for the
outcome of Tuesday’s election. She has always been a scrappy little hen, bossy
and loud. A good layer—we could host Hot Cross Buns for eighteen on just her
white eggs alone. She kept the Buffs in line until just last week, when her
comb began to droop. Even now, they leave her be. She was always first into the compost heap when we brought
out the yogurt container full of kitchen scraps. Henny never doubted her place.
So, maybe she is waiting—more patiently than me, to be honest—for Tuesday
evening. And she is hoping, as I am, to see history – or, maybe Herstory—made,
when we finally elect a woman for president. It will be a victory for women. I
hope Henny is still here to see it. I
hope I am, as well.
No comments:
Post a Comment