catching up.

Al and I went to our mom's on Monday night because our most beloved chicken seems to be on her last legs. Monday afternoon I had a voicemail from my mom saying that she didn't think Aubrey would make the night. Aubrey is Wonder Chicken. Alec said it best today in that over the generations of animals there are little gems that shine amongst them. And Aubrey is one.

Death used to be a ritual for us. Whether an animal died with much lead-up or unexpectedly, whether it was violence or illness, we always handled it the same. We had a graveyard and our animals were immediately buried. Some had coffins fashioned for them. Some were buried in cardboard boxes. The rats were often buried in a fresh Kleenex box (since Kleenex boxes were their beds in the living world.) The dogs were buried on their pillows. Our goose was buried wrapped in a sheet. Some were necessarily closed coffin. Some were never found but everyone had a headstone. When my mom sold our farm what I worried most about was if the new owners would unearth the graves. Maybe they'd want to put a picnic area near the pond (only the big animals were buried near the pond.) I buried my dog there, snotty-nosed and digging as hard as I could. Even though I dug as hard as my skinny arms could take me, he could not have been buried too deep. Most everyone else was behind the shavings pile, away from the rest of the property. Even the poisoned and trapped rats were sent off in that area, over the neighbor's fence. And the horse's afterbirths. That area was heavy as sand. I built a gnarled bench there after Oreo died so I could sit by her grave and talk to her. She was the first there and the stone headstones expanded outward.

Now it's sloppy. I'm caught offguard by death, sometimes even put out that it would interfere with my busy life. I've never been good at mourning at the time of the event. It's only when I'm far enough in the future can I let myself feel that pure untapped sadness. A couple years ago I really wanted a dog. I had a dream that Gator, my old dog, was not dead but had been lost and came back. I cried hard when I woke up and realized he was still gone. But, even considering that I've always had that tendency to postpone emotion, death has turned into a speed bump to my life. I no longer stop my days and wait when an old animal gets fatally ill. I'm always rushing to do something and the patience death demands is beyond me now. I don't think I felt something as a kid, or did the right thing by the deceased, because I had greater innocence or because I didn't know better. I simply had my priorities right in the sense that I had none. It was clear that dying was something that needed to be done well, no matter the circumstance. The end result was always a few kind words and a handful of dirt. The purity of the intention was the difference.

I'm not sure if Aubrey is still hanging in there. Last we left her she was sitting in the lowest shelf in the chicken coop. I can put my thumb and forefinger together on either side of her breastbone. Most of her weight comes from an apricot-sized tumor on her breast. She still has her fluffy white beard and partly crooked toe. Her feathers look nice, much better than the ragged mess she always is during spring molting. And, doing the math, she's 12 years old. Only Patty and Sweetpea are of her same generation. The coop will definitely be emptier without her in it. We've had a good rabbit, a good rat, a good horse, a good turkey, a good cat, good dogs, and Aubrey was our good chicken. She was well-loved and loved well in return.