The day before she died she was slow to come out of her coop and stood around kind of out of it. I didn't pay much attention because I had to get to work and I figured she was just having an off day. Mack said she was standing around shell shocked, but he didn't notice anything in particular when he picked her up. I should've paid more attention. I wish I would've known her funk was something serious. I wish I didn't cry every time I think of her sweet body in my arms, her darling eyes closed, her little neck all floppy, and those perfect yellow feet all stiff. I wish losing her didn't hurt this bad. A couple months ago she had some terrible diarrhea. I was syringe force feeding her probiotic drinks and water every few hours and she seemed to get better. Right after that she started to molt. Her comb never got back to its floppy bologna state, but her new feathers came in and she was so beautifully soft and shiny. The day after Christmas she was downing a leftover relish tray like the Ginger the Binger she is. And now she is gone. Oh, Ginger.
Ginger was my most loving chicken. She'd let me carry her anywhere and would sometimes fall asleep on my lap. She was tolerant of the kids' cuddles. She invited herself to everything I was doing outside, whether it was laundry or cutting wood with a jigsaw. She invited herself inside, too. She didn't care one bit about the chicken hierarchy, eating what she pleased when she wanted and even stealing worms right out of the other girls' mouths and then running away. She was my tiniest puff, and grew up to be my skinniest girl. She ate like a French woman and didn't get fat, which is why she was also called Jean Jae sometimes. She was probably the best Rhode Island Red that ever graced the planet.
I am so grateful for the laughs, joy, and love she brought to my dusty old dried up lifeless back yard, and I miss her so much. Sleep good, my sweet Gingie.
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