Epilogue

Cancer.
Spleen cancer to be exact.

That's what killed our Brigid, the Beautiful, Bitchy, Buff Orpington a little over a week ago. Have you ever heard of such a thing?

RIP Brigid (& Lucy-Lu)

As you'll recall, B had taken up residence in our house for quite some time and was doted on accordingly. We'd been unable to bring ourselves to perform gentle euthanasia and were set to try yet another, probably invasive, procedure to 'fix' her.

I'm so relieved she checked out literally minutes before that was to occur. 
Though we had a fairly good sense she wasn't quite ready to give up, that poor, little body of hers had other ideas.
Her last day seemed pleasant enough, which included some outdoor time. 
But the panting/beak breathing had worsened and she wasn't able to take in the water I'd returned to administering by eye dropper, though she was obviously thirsty. (The darling was sucking up fallen drops on her feathers.)  There was still some preening, ambulating, curiosity and desire left in the ol’ gal.

Within moments of hearing her flapping around, I was holding her lifeless form still excreting what I believe to be that morning's breakfast. She'd certainly stopped digesting food by then.

What happened next had been previously practiced- there was a bit of deja vu to all of this.

OSU prefers necropsy specimens to be refrigerated, not frozen. So I'd removed the bottom drawer to make room for Brigid's body, which would stay there overnight before I drove her up to the university the following day.

Irony, no? The vegetarian-friendly appliance where no meat shall pass serving as a morgue for poultry.

I'm glad it was over, but was left feeling conflicted. And still am.

Exactly one week earlier and a week even before then, we’d found ourselves in the same boat.

#2 chicken, Brigid, was poorly and we were on the precipice of doing her in.

Per protocol, she’d been isolated in the Pet Taxi on the Dining Porch so we could keep an eye on her and tend to her as best we could and knew how.

This mainly involved Internet research, a lousy book and conferring with our local ‘chicken guy’. It's nearly impossible to find information on the topic of various hen illnesses, let alone how to nurse and medicate them as most folks simply cull the animal in lieu of attempting otherwise.

In addition to essentially presenting Alzheimer’s, was the dilemma that she'd not been eating or drinking.

I decided that wasn't much of a life and it certainly wasn't going to be a death I'd care to witness, so ending it quickly would be in everyone's best interest.

I'm all about quality vs. quantity of life.

And after the debacle that was keeping my precious Kiwi Kitty alive all those unnecessary years for no one else's good but my own, I swore never to let that happen again. 
But here we were, 10 years later.

With a chicken.

First question- was she suffering?
Well I'd answer, 'yes', given that she was slowly starving and dehydrating.

However, all other signs were positive. She wasn’t really “improving”, but neither was she making haste for the other side, therein our conundrum.

Oh, the angst.
We're vegan wanna-bes.

I quit *watching* people fish decades ago, even if they did throw them back in.

I don't just not smoosh spiders, I employ an elaborate system of trapping and relocating them involving a toilet paper tube.

Our hens have a safe, stewpot-free home with us long after their egg making days have passed.

I'm not into the business of killing things, which made this decision tough.

But being a realist and one whose belief in the greater beyond and transitions is fairly enlightened, helped to supersede the distasteful task before us.

Twice we’d had The Conversation, from all sorts of angles and approaches.

And twice instead of returning with the Kevorkian Kit, CAM came home with new means to save her.

He can be a prickish SOB at times (nobody ever believes me when I say that, but it's true) but damn if that man isn't the biggest sap with the softest heart in the world.

Yeah, it’s a chicken!

And we were exploring our deepest held philosophies regarding life and death and our role in such a decision.

To what end?
We’re still second guessing ourselves.

Her death wasn’t the key in unlocking the golden answer to those mysteries of the biggest picture.

But in a way, it’s helped to inform future situations.

And for that I’ll always be grateful to Brigid’s ultimate gift of sacrifice.

RIP, you dear bird.
 

**The necropsy report in all its glorious gobbly gook copied below.

You’ll also notice at some point the dumb ass had swallowed a screw. 

Hanging out inside towards her end days, though you'd never have guessed it.

Post-tube feeding: she would become very docile. On her final day, I'd made the gruesome discovery that in addition to losing most of her feathers around her abdomen, her breastbone was almost exposed (a bodily result of what was happening internally.) This visual will haunt me.