The chickens are breaking my heart. I love everything about them. The way they run to me when I call their names. The way they chatter with each other. The way Olive calls out to Dolores just to make sure she’s still there. The looks I get when I open the nest door to see what they’re doing, which is, thank you very much, laying an egg. The warmth of a freshly laid egg. The sight of a basket of blue-green and chocolate brown eggs. The incredible shock when the hens molt and then equal amazement at the beauty of new feathers. The dust baths. The sunbaths. I love the wisdom I’ve obtained from identifying new predators who want nothing more than to dine on our chickens. The skunk, raccoon, fox, coyote, and hawk. The Newfs never did much when an invader was in the garden, but their mere presence; their odor and bark, would keep predators at bay. Now that Boomer is gone, only little Monkey remains to guard the chickens. I don’t think she’s much of a deterrence.
These hens are happy, healthy, and have lived probably the best chicken life ever. I love that and I love watching them as they rummage through the garden, finding worms and the occasional mouse to savor. They are descendants of dinosaurs after all.
I don’t know if I’ll miss the hens or the backyard chicken lifestyle more. Each day, I get up at sunrise to take care of the chickens. I bring fresh water and food. Lately, I’ve gone out at dawn and then closed the door to their small yard that is adjacent to the coop because our neighborhood fox family is back and living next door. I return at 9 or 9:30 and I free the very irritated hens. Usually, they follow me back to the house to see if they can sneak in for a little walk-about, all the while chattering with each other.
I can’t take the hens with me to an apartment. So, I placed a notice on a website known as Colorado Chickens II seeking to place them in a forever home, meaning Dolores and Olive would not be eaten once they quit laying. I received numerous responses and decided on a woman living in Parker. She has 5 acres and wants chickens. She’s new to the effort but she’s passionately involved in canine rescue. She has a fully enclosed run, and the girls will be safe and have plenty of room to forage.
This lifestyle has suited me well. I have always loved any kind of animal and I’ve grown used to our environment that protects both the wildlife and domesticated. Our garden has given them cover and has nourished my soul.
This process is wreaking havoc on my emotions which are, frankly, out of control. A friend said, it’s about the loss. She’s right. So much will be forsaken with this move not the least of which is the freedom of a large garden that sheltered us from the city. Or the animals chasing around . . the squirrels, rabbits, raccoons . . . even the skunk’s nightly visit. The chickens walking into the house through an open door or roosting in my office while I’m trying to work. The garden parties, the evenings spent sitting around the fire pit talking with friends into the late night. The space to host a dog party with thirty-four dogs and twenty-five women. And the house itself. The cozy rooms adorned with murals; doors, and windows wide open to let the fresh air in and the inevitable sweet odor of wet dogs. As we continue the downsizing of our lives, it is exactly what it sounds like: miniaturizing our existence. I envy those old folks who manage to stay in their homes until the day they die, leaving the unraveling to their relatives. But that is not an option for us. We’ll continue this process until we’ve managed to pressure wrap our belongings into a movable package knowing that each future move will require less to go but more to lose.
Air. 
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