|Rest in peace, Fluff Up|
A strangely positioned Plymouth Rock hen laid at my feet, foot up in the food dish, head to the side, beak slightly opened. A traumatic sight for a kid to encounter, I suppose.
I called out for a bag and the hubby and I took care to wrap this stiff bird up into two grocery bags before we had a moment of silence for the chicken formerly known as Fluff Up. We then placed her delicately into a very large garbage bin.
She must have hit her head because she was well up until that point. She even laid an egg yesterday, even though she was an old bird. Poor old girl.
I sought solace in Pinterest later that night and wondered what would happen if I searched the words, "my chicken died".
Do you know what happens when you do that?
Let me tell you.
Pages and pages and pages and pages and pages of delicious chicken recipes. What? Is that enchiladas?
Thanks, Pinterest. You're so understanding.
Peace, love, and baked or grilled?