Dirty Birdie was a white and buff Easter Egger hen. The night before she died, I dreamt there was a terrible flood. I saved Katy Pecky just in time, but Dirty Birdie was carried away in the flood water.
Screeched and clicked instead of clucking like a normal chicken. She would fly up on my shoulder, no matter where I am or what I’m doing. She likes to have a ride on my shoulder like a parrot around the yard. I should have known something was wrong when she stopped flying up on me.
Dirty Birdie was near the top of the pecking order, but I never saw her peck any of the hens. She was the smallest one and my husband calls her “the hardest working chicken ever.” She was constantly foraging like there was no tomorrow; suddenly there was no tomorrow. She let Lucy follow her around. Lucy now seems lost.
Dirty Birdie would have been a construction worker if she was a person.
I think she had lymphoid leukosis.