To a Friend Lost

For as long as I can remember my family has always maintained a “farm-like” residence in the suburbs of San Francisco…Growing up, we had the normal pets such as dogs, cats, guinea pigs, and hamsters along with the not so standard but still somewhat normal rabbits, turtles, and fish, followed by the true farm yard animals of chickens, ducks and a wild boar (although the boar was only part of the family for approximately 5 hours). So when I showed up at my family’s house nine years ago on break from college with dirty laundry and a baby chick, my parents were less surprised than say, the standard nuclear family in suburbia.

I had rescued Petri, my pet chicken, from a friend;s hungry pet snake and found myself, at the age of 19, the mother of a new baby chick. She lived with me at college, following me around the yard and chirping when I wasn’t around until Thanksgiving when I took her up to my parent’s house to be integrated into the family chicken coop. And while I headed back to college for the winter term, Petri took over my spot (and room) at home…my sister has yet to forgive me or my parents for that experience. And once spring arrived, Petri was outside in the main coop, fighting her way up the pecking order and eventually earning her spot amongst the others. For the years to come, Petri enjoyed a privileged life, being let out of the coop to roam the yard for bugs, chasing dogs and children alike around the lawn in attack/play mode and loving the extra attention from my parents and me. She was as much adored as a family chicken could be.

And as the other chickens died and were replaced, I figured Petri’s days were numbered; she was reaching an unheard of old age for chickens. So while I was expecting to get the phone call from my parents that Petri had died, I would have never expected her to go out fighting a suspected raccoon in the middle of the night, disappearing forever without a trace. Unfortunately, that was the reality I had to face last week, upon returning home from my sister’s house. I felt sick to my stomach looking at the crime scene of missing chicken and an usual amount of feathers, wishing a better end for my first and only chicken. So, to Petri, I hope you enjoyed your nine years as a Gimbel and are living freely up on the hillside, with maybe a few missing feathers, but otherwise, unharmed.