We opened up the roost this morning, and the red hen was lying against the white hen, who stayed with her all night. A few minutes later, both walked around the yard, although the red hen was moving slowly and seemed weak and confused.

We caught her, and I had the task of wiping her bloody and injured butt and covering it with antibiotic cream, which is not how I prefer to start the day. Life on a farm is often humbling. We have more cleaning to do; a red chunk is still hanging off her backside.

The alarm, worry, and advice messages began pouring in early this morning. We have gone about our business, checking on her two or three times. The farm is a drama killer; we don’t do it. We do know how to treat injured chickens. We don’t name our chickens, we sometimes call this one the Brown Hen, sometimes the Red Hen. But she has no name.

Tonight, when she’s asleep in the roost, we’ll get her and try to do more cleaning and apply more antibiotics and warm water. We’ve had a lot of injured and sick chickens over the years, and very few of them have survived a direct attack like that.

Chickens are tough, but they don’t quickly rebound from trauma and injury like sheep. And we are very cautious about the steps we take to save them.

I know it isn’t Bud’s fault, but it is not fun to see. I hope she gets better.

Chickens are not like dogs and donkeys to me. Maria loves them, and I am fond of them, but I have many more red lines for chickens than dogs, donkeys, and sheep.

I am not comfortable taking them to the vet and spending a few hundred dollars on them; we will treat the red hen as we have learned to do – sometimes successfully – but then she is on her own, and honestly, I doubt she will fully recover.

Bud caught up with her and took a good chunk out of her, something I couldn’t quite see at first. If she wavers, I will consider shooting her to make sure she isn’t in pain or gets tortured and pecked by the other chickens, who are notoriously vicious to their companions when they get sick or are dying.

The natural world is not like the children’s books and stories; it is a rough and Darwinian place. There are no furbabies in the house or the roost.

If I feel wrong about anything, it’s that we left the back gate unlocked, a serious lapse on a farm near a highway. We are lucky Bud didn’t follow through and kill her; he seemed okay with a bite; he could quickly have finished her off. Bud isn’t a killer; he’s a hunter; that’s what terriers do.

I never blame a dog for doing what dogs do; that would be a  form of social abuse.

Tonight, we’ll look at her; we have cream and the other things we need. If we can help her, we will. If not, we will say goodbye and make sure she doesn’t suffer any more than need be.

I take my stewardship seriously when it comes to animals. That means being their advocate when people offer expensive and dramatic advice about keeping them alive when their time has come.

Maria and I will do everything within reason to help her, but you have to make choices on a farm, or there won’t be a farm. We are rooting for her; it was a good sign she walked around; we’ll see how she gets through the night.

But perspective is important to me. I am no hardass, but I mean to keep this farm as long as possible. A wounded chicken is not a major crisis for me unless she suffers pointlessly.

I’ve cried over every dog I’ve had to euthanize and bawled like a baby when Simon died.

But I’ve never shed a tear for a chicken. We were not close.  If it comes to that, I won’t be crying for this one; the red hen had a wonderful long life; she ranged freely every day, had a windproof roost and gourmet leftovers and snacks every day of her life.

Amen.