, a red geranium clutched in his hand. I walked alongside him and his brother and sisters followed close behind. The dim November light and the fallow brown fields provided a sombre backdrop for the funeral of a dear member of the family: Pipsqueak the chicken.
Our family lives on a farm, and we’ve had hundreds of friendly chickens through the years, most of whom ended up being composted in the manure pile after their death from natural causes. But Pipsqueak required a proper burial because she was no ordinary chicken. She was my son’s therapy pet.Zach and Pipsqueak both joined our family eight years ago, just a month apart. Zach was an emaciated kid with undiagnosed special needsafter years in foster care.
The next time we had a BBQ, Zach was able to come outside and join the festivities because he had Pipsqueak to sit beside him at the picnic table. He made it through the meal and even laughed at a joke or two. Then he took a stroll with his hen. Day by day, with Pipsqueak next to him as he explored the world, his fears melted away and eventually Pipsqueak spent more time rooting for insects in the grass than she did calming Zach.
“She was my best friend,” Zach said, laying the flower on her grave. “I’ll never have a chicken like her.” And he won’t, because she’d accomplished her job. As Zach wiped tears from his eyes with his sleeve, my own tears began to fall. I owed Pipsqueak an enormous debt of gratitude I’d never be able to repay; it was because of her that my son was able to stand outside that night free of fear, to say goodbye to his feathered friend.
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