This weekend we had to put down our dear girl Conchita. She had been deteriorating for several weeks, with a condition likely brought on by the fact that modern domestic chickens are bred to lay as many eggs as possible, which takes a terrible toll on their bodies and over time can cause complications.
Our interventions bought her some time, but she had lost a lot of weight. On Sunday, we decided along with our vet that she was getting to the point where the discomfort and lack of eating was turning into real suffering, even if she still enjoyed sun, grass, and foraging. Her last days were made as pleasant as possible, we hope.
We know we have our animals for only a short while. We know that they depend on us for everything; that we have absolute control; that their lives and deaths are determined by what we do or don't do. But every one we lose still hurts.
Conchita, named after my grandmother, and whom we brought with us from Seattle when we moved to the country, is resting now in our growing animal cemetery. We will soon honor her brief life and remember her at the Day the Dead.
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