This week the lovely brown hen from next door, Esmerelda died under our verandah. I felt really sad all day at work. She had been attacked by a neighbour's dog when they had been returning from a walk. The hen was nesting at ground level on the neighbour's shared driveway and was disturbed by a boisterous running dog. The said dog is a hunting breed, so the "inevitable" happened and she was bitten but escaped. She lingered for a couple of days.
When I noticed that she was sick, she was hobbling over to our water bowl on the lawn and then drooped on the floor. I fed her bread and got her to drink. By tea time she was sheltered under the verandah and I put a fruit box next to her so she couldn't be seen by the other chickens as they were pestering her. She even let me stroke her, so we had a wee talk and I prayed for her. Later I learned that my husband had done the same. The next morning she was dead.
I love the feather dusters. They have real personalities, and it seems sad that they live such short lives, yet grace us with humour and affection in their own feather brained way.