Our Plymouth Rock hen, Snow, had to be euthanized last Sunday. She was old, for a chicken, and her health went from bad to worse over a span of two weeks or so. By Nov. 18, she had stopped eating. Even her beloved snacks, such as mealworm and plain yogurt, held no appeal. That pattern continued the following day, combined with several other signs that her quality of life was gone.
Snow (aka, Snowy) was a cherished pet. She was our oldest hen, the one we had for the longest period of time, the last survivor from our 2012 start-up flock, the chicken with the biggest, boldest, most flamboyant personality. She had suffered several mishaps and medical emergencies over the years, but we had always managed to nurse her back to health.
Until age created an insurmountable obstacle.
There was no way I could have personally ended Snow's life. Yet Liz and I cannot stand to see animals suffer, so we knew that we should act quickly. Nov. 19 being a Sunday, the only available veterinary clinic was an emergency animal hospital 30 miles away. So we placed Snow atop a soft towel in a cat carrier, and I hit the road.
The wait for a veterinary technician wasn't long, but what happened after Snow received her injection seemed interminable.
The only other time I had seen a hen euthanized was at another clinic. The injection took effect almost instantaneously in that case, but the emergency clinic uses a different, and slower, method. I agreed to hold Snow as she “went to sleep,” as the tech put it. So there I sat, alone with Snow in the examining room, waiting for the end. I cradled Snow in my arms for more than 20 minutes, watching her fade ever so slowly. She was wrapped in a fluffy purple blanket provided by the staff. I stroked her neck the entire time, kissed her head, and told her that I loved her and that her ordeal would soon be over. Her eyes remained open until shortly before she passed away. She made no sound. She did not fidget.
Although I didn’t expect Snow’s passing would take as long as it did, knowing that in advance would not have changed anything. I would not have left her alone to die with strangers. Holding her and trying to comfort her (she always liked being held and was responsive to the human voice) was extraordinarily difficult, under the circumstances. But I know with absolute certainty that it was the right thing to do. When a staffer finally verified that Snow was gone, she must have seen that I was distraught because she hugged me and said I had done well.
You don’t have to be Jane Goodall working with chimpanzees to appreciate that animals are individuals, with cognitive abilities, personalities, quirks and emotions. Yes, Snowy was a chicken, but I would never say she was “just a chicken.” The pejorative term “birdbrain,” assuming as it does that birds as a class of animals are rather stupid, is foolish and inaccurate.
Snow was a force of nature, full of life and intelligence and exuberance. She always laid unusually large eggs (which sometimes caused physical problems for her), rarely stopped talking while she was awake, and sat at the top of the flock's pecking order for most of her time with us. Yet she didn't pick on newcomers, or harass other hens when they were molting. She had joie de vivre, pure and simple, and a certain dignity.
Caring for Snow all these years was a joy; being with her to the end, a responsibility. I have no adequate words to describe the void she has left behind, or the gratitude we feel for having shared her life.
 |
| Snow (aka, Snowy) in her prime. |
No comments:
Post a Comment