LIFE is ROSEY
I stepped outside the night of the day that the breeze hadnât stopped whistlinâ. The grass felt stiff, crackin under the weight of my heels, the sky looked violent, quickly movin black clouds kept the mountain tops hidden. We had been on a good routine, my lady and me, makin certain that the birds werenât being prepared for the slaughter by another white toothed farm rodent. Every night the door to the tiny house where the chickens slept was latched closed, another small quarrel settled with a hungry beast. I pushed open the gate and slooped down near the feed bucket where there was a small dark animal laying motionless on the cedar shavings, but the light was dim, shrouded over by a snow cloud nestled around the celeste of the sleeping moon. Â I inched closer into the dark figure. Surely it must be nothing, my brain having a shot at my eyes, age playing its merciless tricks. There she was, Rosey, not movinâ, head pointed down. I wrapped my hands around her wings and picked her up, the coop smelled like death. Â I felt her ribcage expanding and contracting, moving the air, she wasnât dead, at least not yet. I hurried her back inside. Under the kitchen light I saw her beaten, bloody head split open from the top of her beak to just past the midpoint of her skull. She was breathing, but no eye movement, both shut, terrified (for certain). This red colored lady bird had been livin here for the past 5 years, born just before our baby girl, Millie. Rosey rarely took residence in the area where the chickens were living, instead she took refuge in the goat house, 30 yards north of the area where I had found her.
I found a cardboard box and laid bedding, water, and food down, before placing Rosey in the box. We put water and electrolytes for children in a syringe and pushed it down her throat, turned the light out and waited for morning.
Next day Rosey still seemed unresponsive. We repeated the process of pushing liquids down her throat and added a heat lamp to keep her body temperature up. By dinner time Rosey had started moving a bit, mostly her head and left eye. Her right eyelid had been crusted shut with the blood that had dripped down her head the previous night or day. By day 3 she began opening her left eye, blinking even, but not walking, her toes curled up under her heels. Hope in the house floated that Rosey would recover, even if it took some time. By day 8 Rosey was eating on her own, drinking on her own, both eyes blinking, but with no reaction to anything visual, her feeding was always a miss, she would peck down, looking for food or water, but completely missing the dishes. We would navigate her head toward the food, and she would eventually locate it after direction. For whatever reason it appeared that Rosey was blind, and her toes curled up (still) under her feet. No walking, though the intent to try was strong. She would push up off of her busted feet and try to balance, but with no luck of maintaining.
This system of feeding, inability of mobility and loss of vision continued on for three weeks, with no improvement to either faculty.
It was Christmas Eve, the excitement swirled through the stairwell and the blinds, enveloping all in the house, winding us into a magical top of stories, smells and music. The festivities of the day were filled with wonder, the children soon grew tired and were tucked in with promises of the man in red to visit via chimney to our humble home. Soon the sounds of the evening had hushed into whispers. There were still presents to be wrapped and dutiful closings of coops and animal feedings. As I passed Roseyâs small residence her head was turned inward toward her back and I couldnât see any signs of movement. I hunched down to feel her chest, no breath, no life, she had gone.
Rosey stayed with us inside for her remaining days, and she brought us together in a different way than we had been in the past with other animals, she required our constant care, and concern, all in the home shared in the duties, and on Christmas we dug a grave and all shed tears as our Rosey left us, as magical and mysterious as the sleigh wielding magician they call Santa.
Missing you and grateful, old friend.












