IN MEMORIUM

Viktor Frankl
Named for the concentration camp survivor, Viktor Frankl was the true founder of the Eastern Shore Chicken Sanctuary. He fell or leapt from a truck heading for the slaughterhouse and ended up in a ditch near our house. We brought him home, made a place for him in the garage, and fenced off a part of the yard for him. He adapted very well to his new surroundings but was obviously lonely. He would run out to greet us whenever we stepped into the yard and would sometimes clamber up onto the back steps just to wait for us. Only later, when other chickens were living with him, was he fully able to live a normal chicken life.

When we brought home Violet and Chickweed from the local humane society, Viktor was overwhelmed. Having lived his first two months in a shed with 20,000 other birds of the same sex and age and the next two months alone with us, he had not been socialized as he would have been with his mother and a normal flock. Now an adult, he wasn't sure what to do with these youngsters. Should he an elder or a peer to the young rooster? Should he court or parent the young hen? For a couple of days, he tried to do everything at once before settling in as their surrogate single parent. He became intensely devoted to them very quickly and defended them whenever he felt they were threatened. When they had to come inside for a few days due to illness, he stopped eating and spent all his time hanging around where he had last seen them.

As the sanctuary grew, so did Viktor. He took his responsibilities as oldest rooster very seriously, constantly bustling around the yard and the coop making sure that everyone was okay. One day, when a couple of young chicks failed to take cover from a couple of hawks, Viktor stood in front of them rather than take cover himself. Viktor had a rich emotional life. He fell in love with Rosa and mourned when she died. For a long time after that, he showed no romantic or sexual interest in any hen. But, when Ellie Mae moved in many months later, he began courting again, spending all his extra time near her.

Viktor died of a sudden heart attack on a spring day when the temperature soared and he became overheated. He was only about a year and a half old. Such heart attacks are common among birds like Viktor, because their muscles are too heavy for their organs. We will always miss Viktor and consider the sanctuary to be his legacy. We still feel his spirit hovering over the chicken yard, making sure that everyone is okay.

Violet and Chickweed
The brother and sister duo of Violet and Chickweed were the second and third chickens in residence at what would become the Eastern Shore Chicken Sanctuary. Like Viktor, they had leapt or fallen from a truck headed for the factory. Found on the roadside by a nice lady, they rode to the local Humane Society cuddled up with a dog on the backseat of her car. Then they came to live with us.

Violet and Chickweed were still peeping like little chicks when they arrived. They were extremely devoted to one another and would take turns protecting one another from perceived dangers. We will never forget the spring that they spent with us. Watching them grow among the wildflowers and weeds, we came to truly appreciate the horror of the poultry industry, which deprives young birds of everything natural and then kills them before they even reach maturity.

As they grew, Violet and Chickweed's individual personalities began to emerge. Chickweed was a sunny and outgoing young bird, while Violet was more quiet and shy. They remained close as they grew, rarely straying more than a few feet from one another. Then they reached the bird equivalent of puberty. Chickweed started trying to crow, his little voice cracking and changing pitch until he got it right. Stomping around on his suddenly very large feet, Chickweed started paying a lot of attention to the other hens who had come to live at the sanctuary. For her part, Violet also sought a wider social circle, spending more and more time socializing with other hens her age. But, Violet and Chickweed checked in with one another frequently in the course of each day and always slept cuddled up together at night.

Then, tragedy struck. Violet got a cut that, because of its location, we didn't see until it became infected. We washed and treated the wound and brought her inside. The next morning, she was dead. Because this was summer and heat-related heart attacks are common among these birds, we don't know for sure whether complications from the the injury or a heart attack killed her.

Chickweed was devastated. He watched us bury Violet and, for the next several weeks, would return to stand silently at the place from which he had last seen her. Like many people do when they are mourning, he became very angry and would rage around the yard every day. At night, he would stand in the coop alone, drooping with sadness.

Chickweed never recovered his sunny personality. While he became less angry over time, he was never the same as he had been before Violet died. That is not to say that he didn't have happy times. He became close to several roosters slightly younger than himself and also remained close to the sanctuary coordinator, with whom he spent time almost every day.

Chickweed lived with us for just over a year. Over the winter, he developed a respiratory infection that eventually stopped responding to treatment. The shelter coordinator spent a lot of time with him towards the end, and he seemed to take comfort from that. He would lean against her, just resting, after she gave him medicine or fed him a special treat.

When we buried Chickweed, we felt compelled to include a few special objects in his grave. We imagined future archeologists digging up our property. We wanted them to know that this chicken wasn't anybody's dinner: this chicken was somebody's brother, this chicken was somebody's friend.

Chickweed was never the same after Violet died. Having loved and lost them both, now we are the ones who will never be the same.

Charlie Parker and Billy Strayhorn
Charlie Parker fled to the woods when the chicken catchers came to capture him and the 20,000 other birds in the shed in which he spent his first few weeks of life. He almost escaped his rescuers too, not knowing that they meant to take him to sanctuary. As soon as he was safe, however, he began singing like a bird (hence, his name).

Charlie had a hard time in the chicken yard at first, because some of the older roosters expected him to defer to them and, having been raised in an artificial social setting, he didn't know how to give the proper signals. He was still so young that he started treating the sanctuary coordinator like his mother, running between her legs for protection, perching on her lap to preen himself, and running frantically after her whenever she would leave the yard. Since he really needed to learn to be with chickens, Charlie was placed in the infirmary area with the now departed Che Guevera and Rosa Luxemborg. Che, who had lost the use of his legs because he was so big, was very strong and gentle. He would lift his wing and little Charlie would snuggle under and calm right down. When Che died of a sudden heart attack, little Charlie was very upset and confused. But by then he had a friend his own age, Little Sister, who had also loved Che. Together, they made the jump into the main chicken yard, clinging together for comfort and mutual aid. They remained close until they reached maturity and drifted apart.

Some time later Charlie Parker, who had himself become very large, developed the leg problems that are so common among these birds. He went to live in the infirmary/nursery area permanently. And then he became the one who lifted his wing to comfort and protect the young ones. Since this is not something that many "broiler" roosters do, we imagine that Charlie learned about being an adult rooster from Che. In turn, he passed that legacy along to the young roosters he nurtured.

One of those young roosters was Billy Strayhorn, who came to the sanctuary with a broken leg and a broken wing but survived and thrived against all odds. Billy was found on the side of the road by a woman who was on her way home from a job interview with Perdue! (She took this as a sign and did not accept the job when it was offered to her.) Billy was strong and stubborn. Even when in terrible pain, he would not be still and kept trying to walk. The vet put a pin in his leg, which helped for a while, but then the pin worked its way out and the leg became infected. Billy went back to the vet and spent a week there before being released. Many of the staff members at the vet's office commented on how sociable he was. They were surprised when he would respond when they talked to him. They had never realized that you could have a relationship with a chicken.

On the first day back home at the sanctuary, Billy stood up and walked. But, as he got bigger, walking became more difficult. He was friends with Frances, who was blind and also somewhat lame. Like many chickens, Billy liked music. He listened to the radio when he was at the vet and recovering indoors at the sanctuary. He perked right up one day when he was in the car going to the vet and "Take the A Train" came on the radio. Hence, he was named after the composer of that tune.

Like most "broiler" roosters, Charlie Parker and Billy Strayhorn died young. Luckily, they each passed peacefully, letting go of the pains they had endured in life. And, they each left behind a legacy of love. Our photo gallery includes a picture of Charlie Parker with one of the many chicks he took under his wing.

Romeo
Romeo spent some time as the leader of the "broiler" roosters but but was not as bossy as others have been in this role. He looked out for everyone but didn't boss anyone around. That's wasn't surprising, because he was always a quiet and somewhat retiring bird. Romeo came to the shelter along with four other young roosters who had mysteriously appeared in someone's yard. They were all about six or eight weeks old, which is when these birds are slaughtered, so they must have escaped the chicken catchers somehow. We called the group of them The Pips because they moved in unison. Romeo got his name because he was a shy pretty-boy. We were very surprised when the name turned out to be accurate. Upon reaching adulthood, Romeo became extremely popular with the hens and always had five or seven regular girlfriends. They would spend almost all of their time with him, dust bathing together during the day and cuddling together at night. Several other hens spend time with him occasionally. We noted with interest that the more brash and aggressive roosters are never as popular with the hens as was Romeo, who was always very gentle and generous with them.

Romeo was not happy when, due to age, it became his turn to be "alpha rooster." On the morning he assumed the role, he was very nervous and went above and beyond the call of duty patroling the yards for problems and scanning the skies for predators. It was clear that he was uncomfortable but felt honor bound to do his duty. When, some weeks later, some older roosters moved in, Romeo relinquished his role with almost palpable relief and went back to spending his days with his girlfriends.

Romeo lived a very long time for a "broiler" rooster, becoming visibly elderly. As chickens do when they die naturally, he gradually started sleeping more and moving around less. One day, we just knew that he was going to die in his sleep that night. This was the day that we welcomed Red Rover and her companions from the live poultry market. Having lived only indoors in cages, they were very frightened by their new surroundings. They huddled together afraid to take a step in any direction. At the same time, Pattrice was bringing Romeo into the yard, to let him have a last look at the place where he had so many happy days. As he rested in her arms, looking around placidly, the new hens were drawn to him. Slowly, very slowly, one and then three and then seven new hens came closer and closer to the strange site of a person sitting on the ground cuddling a chicken. Then they became less afraid. Romeo fell asleep right there and never woke up. We consider welcoming the new hens to be his last act.

Godiva
Godiva arrived almost completely naked, defeathered and disoriented after a year and a half in a battery cage in an egg factory. With her badly debeaked visage and the stumps of former feathers sticking out from her skin, she looked more like a monster than a bird as she took her first tentative steps onto the grass of the Eastern Shore Chicken Sanctuary.

Soon and very soon, Godiva and the others who had come with her to the sanctuary learned to revel in the new rhythm of their lives: up and out with the sunrise, big breakfast, dust bath or puddle wading (depending upon the weather), egg laying in tree stumps or nests in the brush, light lunch, siesta with the roosters in the sun in the winter or the shade in the summertime, some kind of late afternoon treat, final foraging before bedtime, then making their own way inside at sunset to cuddle up with their chosen companions on the perches and platforms in the coop. The people watched and learned something about both the fragility and resiliancy of Gaia, our ecosystem, who is us.

Soon and very soon, those who arrived with Godiva grew back their feathers but, six months later, Godiva was still half naked. Special treats with extra nutrients finally allowed her to regain her full complement of feathers by the time of her one year anniversary at the sanctuary. And, what feathers they were! Red with white centers, Godiva's feathers were easily the most delicately beautiful in the yard.

Godiva was a regular gal who, apart from the issue of her feathers, wouldn't have stuck out from the crowd. Her best friends were Fanny and Scout. She rarely went anywhere without her pals and generally let them take the lead in any endeavor.

That's why it was troubling when Godiva starting standing around by herself in the woods. The people at the sanctuary noticed and brought her into the infirmary yard that shares a fence with the main yard, so that she could still have contact with her friends. She didn't like it, but needed to be there so she could get some medicine and would not have to jostle with other birds at the food and water bowls. She was very light. The antibiotics didn't do any good but a steady diet of her favorite treats did perk her up somewhat. She ate well but didn't gain weight. She missed her friends but did find some companionship with Wonder (a blind rooster) and some of the other birds in the infirmary. Some days she ate eagerly and seemed to enjoy life, other days she stayed inside and had to be coaxed into eating. This went on for weeks.

One night, Godiva ate hard-boiled eggs eagerly before taking herself to bed. The next morning she was so weak she could barely stand. One of the people held her close and sang to her as she gripped a finger with her toes. Some birds can let go of life while being held; others will hang on until they are left alone. Godiva needed peace to let go. Placed in a favorite spot, where she could see and hear the other birds but still have her privacy, Godiva quietly slipped away.

Here is what one of the people wrote on the day Godiva died:

I'd like to say "go diva, go... you're free now" but all I can think about are the cages and tortures that robbed her of a normal lifespan. I feel the sun on my skin and think about how she couldn't get enough -- did not live to get enough -- sun on her feathers. Fanny keeps coming up to me and I don't know what to say. The birds who just arrived from Florida are happy, so happy, today. Will they, can any of us, get enough animal happiness to repair the damage? And Gaia? Will she survive or will she go like Godiva? I don't know. But, one thing the birds have taught me is that hope really is the thing with feathers. Guess I'll have to follow their lead.

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