Posted Feb 24, 2014
My dad decided to do a little hobby farming when we were young. He let each of us four children pick out a pair of chickens from the local stock sale. I don't remember which breed my brothers picked out. I will never forget the ones I chose.
Lucy and Ricky were White Crested Black Polish chickens. I just fell in love with their fancy hats. To my little mind they looked as if they were always dressed for a party.
Our chickens were kept in a coop with a fenced yard for the birds to scratch and peck. For the most part, the whole flock got along well. I don't remember even one chicken fight.
My job as the keeper of the flock was to feed the chickens and collect eggs. I loved the feeling of warm eggs against the scratchy nests. The Polish eggs were nothing special, small and plain. How does such an average egg come from such gorgeous birds?
Our birds started dying, one a day, quite suddenly. I remember the morning I found Lucy with her feet in the air. The next day Ricky had died, too. Dad finally determined that a weasel had been getting in under the hen house and killing off our flock.
Seeing our broken hearts, Dad never bought replacement chickens. However, a new dog did show up a week later.