Steve

Steve is a chicken. She (yes, Steve is a she) is the black one in this photo, taken when we still had several chickens. This is the story of Steve.

My wife likes chickens. Something about them makes her feel good. She had a big chicken coop made outside our home, and even a big fenced in garden, so the chickens can run around, safe from marauding foxes and other miscreants. She takes care of them, and on sunny afternoons she lets them out of even their private garden, so that they can free range around the yard, pecking and digging things up, and generally just amusing her.

She’s had a number of chickens – I think at least 6 at one time, but I forget. She got them as tiny chicks. She encouraged our kids to come up with names for them. Pancake was a big white one, Mufasa was another, Suarez was another. Our youngest son came up with the last chicken’s name – he said that the little black one should be called Steve, and he wouldn’t listen to anyone who said that Steve is generally recognized as a boy’s name. He just thought it was funny….so Steve it was. And Steve outlived them all…by a lot.

Over time, the chickens left us, one way or another. A hawk took one while free ranging in the yard. My wife was outside at the time, with our youngest, and witnessed the kidnapping. “Will – go get her back!” Not wanting to disappoint Mum, he took off after the hawk with the young chicken in it’s talents…not quite sure what he was supposed to do, but… As you can imagine, things did not end well for the chicken. Others died in various ways, some peaceful, some not so much.

Steve was the last of them. Steve lived quite a life, for a chicken. Steve had that huge coop and garden outside our home in Connecticut, and when we decamped to Maine for the summers…well, Steve came with us. We built another coop and another big beautiful garden outside our home in Maine. As such, Steve would summer in Maine, and winter in Connecticut. Quite the life he (sorry, SHE) had. Steve didn’t seem to mind being the only chicken. Why would she, with the luxurious living quarters she enjoyed.

In the late afternoons, my wife would open the gate to Steve’s garden and let her free range around our house. Steve never wandered far. In fact she usually made a bee line for the house, knowing there was always extra dog food to snack on. Our dogs learned early on that Steve was part of the family and should be treated as such. In fact Steve and Rooney, our yellow lab, became good friends, hanging out in the dirt together like old mates. Here is Steve’s garden in Maine….

Steve was 10 years old this year. She was a miracle. She was even laying eggs still, at this old age. Other “chicken people” thought it couldn’t be true that Steve was that old, much less still laying eggs. In the last couple of years, I started calling her Stevie Nicks, which is of course a gal’s name. Seemed right.

My wife really enjoyed Steve.

Steve died last week.

Steve was just a chicken. She was an old old chicken. We didn’t pet her or cuddle her. Sometimes we could pick her up, but she wasn’t like a dog or a cat. It was hard to tell if she had a personality of any kind. Yet, she was part of this silly family somehow. I assume that Steve just died of old age, but the fact that on a hot day she was out of water, disturbed us…did we inadvertandly kill Steve? Might she have lived on if we had taken better care of her? I don’t know, but I admit it bothers me a bit to think we might have had a hand in her ending. I hope she just died peacefully, of old age.

My wife cried. She still cries and she won’t talk about it. I buried Steve, right there in her garden. I made a little grave for her, but my wife won’t look at it. It’s crazy, but I also have admit this….I miss Steve. There was something about the ritual of getting up early and letting Steve out of her coop (we locked her up at night for her protection), of feeding her greens during the day, of letting her out in the afternoon and watching her wander quietly all around the house and garden. Steve was somehow soothing and was definitely part of the whole vibe of our house….and now she’s gone. I let Rooney (her best friend) say goodbye before I buried Steve. Rooney is old too (almost 14). Here she is…

I made this little grave for Steve (and for my wife). Note the chicken statues around her – they were a birthday present for my wife last year. She really did like chickens.

I know, I know…this is a lot to write about a dumb chicken. I was over it, but this morning I read an article about Fleetwood Mac and Stevie Nicks. I guess I will always think about Steve now when I listen to Stevie Nicks.

Sorry, Steve, we will miss you….but I guess it’s pretty cool that you had such a great life, for a chicken.